Becha
It is Spring
And sunflowers cowl,
waiting to exhale bright and large
above hate-scorched earth
It is Spring
The soil sown red and wet
Inhaling last breaths
Burying muffled moans
Absorbing the lost light of a generation
It is Spring
Eclipsed by shadow of murderous intent
Showers hurtling cold and distant fire
Tendril-arms reaching sunward
Praying from buried concrete fear
Grasping hands now carved with thick, dark lifelines
It is Spring
A triumphant fantasy
trampled under thick, muddy boots
Teardrops watering the blooms
of never-ending winters
Simple Bouquet
They were buying flowers
For their daughter
It was a simple bouquet
Of yellow flowers
Small, delicate suns peeking amid a soft vermillion sky
of leaves speckled with white baby’s breath
It reminded me of the days to come
The whispered promise of hope
Of long shadows and bright tomorrows
They were buying flowers
For their daughter
To lay at her grave
The child they had lost to pandemic
And I didn’t know what to say
“I’m so sorry. I really am,” I said
But, it was feeble and lost
Just a scream in a hurricane
As they nodded and smiled sadly
Taking a dozen yellow suns
To share with their daughter
On this lovely Spring day
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