Five days before the deadline in Iraq,

but I'm thinking of the crystal war outside instead:

an ice storm left the roads treacherous, like spies,

and the trees are glass now.

Whenever the winds blow the harsh sands of time

the treetops shatter, and you risk your life

to wander unguided through the falling ice-shrapnel

without the slim protection of a flak jacket

with no way to fight back

Even the blades of grass are clear,

crunching under foot like empty eggshells

and unkept promises, soldiers' brittle lives

crushed by a careless walker on the firing line.



the sun sets on the Antarctic desert.