Paper Shoes and Drones

I was hands-on, age seven or so.
I made flimsy stapled-paper slippers.
I favored juicy red and turquoise crayons, diligently
Rubbed them hard into white typing paper
From my father’s office.
Stapled the pages together, made my own
Paperback picture book about a trip
To the circus.
And, I got lost in dressing and undressing,
Unpacking and repacking,
My complicated family
Of wedding party paperdolls.

Today, Nancy is here for the march.
She is messaging on her laptop.
She is cutting six drones from cardboard.
She paints them the dead, military gray
And (in black) these words: The War Drones On.

Marchers will carry them,
Swing them from dowels on Saturday,
When the war is officially
Seven years old.

We stand in the carport,
Citizen witnesses to the drying of the
Drone paint and the turning pages of the war.
It is nearly spring, the stirring season.
Some leaves rustle, some are lifeless.
I am thankful for my playmates.
I am praying for my leaders.