Citizenry Of The Soul Poem by Romella Kitchens

If I did not believe there was bad in us,
I would have told you so.
If I did not believe there was also good, there
I would have uttered the words.
The instant of man is suspended on this.
It pivots upon it as if some jewel on a chain,
as if it belonged.
We travel down the gravel road together past
the cornfields, and there a peacock stands bewildered by a barn, with eyes like a human being.
Up further are three golden feathered roosters with blood red combs and, a ram with majestic horns.
Still further is a reindeer, who hides his oddness in the shadows.
On the ridge above, are the horse men.
The horses are pale and beautiful and the
sky above is laid open and wondrous.
We travel further and, we reach a field of ghosts,
one single Flag in the of the green grass.
We sit and wonder at mankind, at the struggle
that ensued there above that field to preserve
humanity.
We imagine the plummet of the metal hull to
the soil.

The purer of soul come every day and sit and look
out upon the single Flag, look out upon the
single truth.
The mud clings to their earnest feet.
There is no wind above nor below here.
But here the currents of air have odd faces and hands.
They make unfinished turns and curves.
They ring bells on plaques.
They caress chimes and flutter ribbons.
If we read the names of the dead and, look
at photographs of them, we sense choice here, deliberation, the need to protect, to save.
We see the brighter soul.

We know they are as this wind we feel brushing our arms, even in their going.