^{Nahr al-Bared, 2007}

After a night of mortar fire,
in the first light, her father drags

a hose across his yard, to water
the plum saplings he planted

last month. Half a world away,
crepe myrtles outside her home

blaze, impotent red blooms.
When she phones, he will talk

only about the plums, how
sweet they will taste, sliced

and salted, on his favorite plate.