Though many humans could
point to a sword, how many
could identify a plowshare?

Any farmer could, any soul who
has tilled massive amounts of soil
over acreage meant to grow

food for thousands. I could not,
having to look it up. But when
I stumbled upon the sculpture

carved into near life by a Soviet
artist set into stone at the United
Nations the year after I was born,

I recognized the bending sword
being remade into the business end
of a plow, meant to slice grass

and earth, not flesh, inverting
the soil, preparing it for planting.
A Biblical dream, one that so many

dream, even those, by choice or not,
defending their homelands across
the globe. We know them—

or knew them—fathers, mothers,
brothers, sisters in arms, in service,
to whom we are grateful,

who might wish the same thing:
to turn their swords into plowshares,
to have no need for them,

to learn war no more.