And Nothing Hurt

The war was over,

or maybe it hadn’t begun.

The sky hummed like a sweet lullaby,

and the fields grew wild with unbothered color.

Children ran barefoot through puddles

that reflected shining stars;

not bombs, not blood, not battles.

Just stars.

Birdsong came not in bursts,

but in chattering conversation;

soft notes that stitched the morning

to the quiet of day.
A fox curled in the shade of a stone wall,
dreaming of tasty rabbits and thunderclouds
that never broke.

In the village where time forgot to tick,

old men whittled birds from memory

and women sang bread into being.

Even silence spoke in kindness.

No one locked their doors.

No one remembered why they ever would.

Windows stayed open,

Letting the scent of rain-soaked grass seep in. 

A rainbow arcs faintly in the distance,

like a half-remembered promise

never to be fulfilled.

A boy with a wooden sword

guarded a dandelion

as though it were a kingdom.

When the wind blew, he bowed.

The flower nodded back,

and the day passed

without injury.

A girl wandered through a field,

brushing past multicolored flowers.

The grass whispered quietly beneath her feet,

and the earth hummed with gentle life.

They leaned toward her as she passed,

as if recognizing an old friend.

The sun retired each evening

without apology or violence.

It kissed the hills goodnight

and turned the world to lavender.

Everything was beautiful,

and nothing hurt.

And for once;

for just this breath;

it was true.