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.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.