By Anita Leigh Holladay
Hands converge towards top of clock on kitchen wall. Beneath, table full of dips, smoked salmon, three kinds of chocolate, only partially eroded by appetite of dancing crowd. Bottles, full and nearly empty, crowd tile counter –– wine, Martinelli’s sparkling cider, champagne awaits the toasts. Time to exit, stand cold out under clouds that undercast Orion, winter’s bow- man, and red Mars. From near and away reports, bangs, bursts, then three-note minor harmony, train whistle wails improbably from recent quiet of this trackless island. Open wooden door again, lift heavy hand-forged latch. Music seeps, then surges out as inner glass opens onto motion, voices join with John and company all we are saying voices from a time no less urgent than our own new year is give peace flung towards us from a day back the other side of the bullets a chance hands swirl and lift all we are saying free feet stamp polished boards is give peace up stairs to look down on the whirl a chance keep rising up to see across the island, mountains, continent all we are saying imaginary line of year sweeps like moon-shadow east to west is give peace in different tongues a chance different motions all we are saying same enemies of peace in power is give peace though the words are different the war is the same a chance. All we are saying are we willing to share? is give peace take peace where you can a chance again, again, we chant. All we are saying not all of us is give peace but maybe enough a chance.
©2008 Anita Leigh Holladay