Against Images

Against images repeated everywhere of
ash and bodies, steel, glass, silence
falling slow-motion, against
the roar of helicopters, the shrill chorus
of sirens, against all this,
the tomato blossoms open
late, lit up yellow as tiny flames,
without hope of fruit. 
Untended, the sidewalk garden goes wild,
the zinnias’ red almost perverse,
the sage grown thick as fur. 
Still we cling to what could be familiar images,
say that debris rained down,
that bits of paper fell like snow
across the water in Brooklyn.
We know that there is no comfort in this,
that the seasons change without us. 
It is we who need them,
who find beauty in what is lost,
who must seek it there
out of necessity.