Pockets

The mountains kept us like wads of chew
in their caves, holding us while our villages
smoldered, while our hearts gained strength to return.

But we should have known they could not keep us
forever. If you pour seed in a pocket, the birds
find it eventually. Yesterday they came.

This war has shaken us out of our mountains
and torn off our shirt-pockets. Now we have
no room for orphans, for hope or for hunger.

A pocket is a hollow comfort, as it cannot
bear laughter or rain or the shade of a tree.
These are the things we cannot live without.