The Bridge

Two shores;
Separated by a roily river
and eons of distrust.

“I can become a Bridge,”
offers a pile of wood.

For decades, centuries,
cries of “NO” resound
through the hate-filled skies.

Then, at last,
a full moon to the East,
a glorious sunset to the West,
they agree to build.

The wood forms into the Bridge,
and a young girl sprightly walks
across, carrying a bouquet of flowers.

A boy, singing a happy song in
an impish soprano, meanders
along the other way, carrying a
basket of fruit.

The mistrust begins to melt:
everyone loves the Bridge.

———

The sky clouds over;
the moon becomes new.

Driving west to east,
a truck filled with soldiers;
east to west,
a car laden with bombs.

The violence escalates;
everyone blames the Bridge.

One night, the men from the east
stealthily plant explosives
on their shore’s foundation

even as the west men do the same
on their side.

And at the stroke of midnight
(for what better time to do the deed)
they blow the Bridge to smithereens.

A well-meaning pile of wood,
turned to ashes.

** The Beginning **

———

The moral of the parable:

While it may be an easy scapegoat
(perhaps because of its silence),
the bridge is neutral:
it is people who decide
what to drive across it —
guns or butter,
flowers or bombs.