Archeology resurrected our past:
pottery, tiles, occasional broach,
Afraid we will be hard-pressed
for artifacts; if there is a we.
Didn't know silence had a ringing sound,
low and monotonous.
It isn't light, isn't dark; a filtered grey,
perhaps. White dishes faintly glow
against colorless room; blue skies,
red wine, bird song surely existed
as did leisurely horseback rides
upon mountain ridge,
zinnias plucked from garden beds,
puppy fur against my face.
How I long to play tea with my girls,
mold clay with my son, listen to my oldest
recite poetry. Feel my husband's hand
This fallout shelter was designed for safety.
For us. Shelved are a few adventure books,
mystery, one romance. A "complete" Shakespeare.
No Bible as we'd read it cover to cover;
last chapter our least favorite...
Stored food, comforting quilts folded,
supplies stacked for six months; longer now
as I'm the only one. But not for long.
Whisper "The grace of the Lord Jesus
be with all. Amen." as I unlock the deadbolt.
Step out. Embrace Revelation.
by Margaret Bednar, September 17, 2019
This Apocalyptic poem is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Out of Standard - Gimme (Fallout) Shelter"
* The last line of the last book of the Bible is the one quoted above.