I surprised myself with this poem. It is not my usual subject matter.
*
The woman sits in the dirt
Digging into her pots,
Planting bulbs.
Momentarily, a shadow looms,
Moving to block her light.
She does not need to raise her head
To sense this is some foreigner
With a question:
*
“Why are you planting?”
*
Too polite to avoid an interloper,
Slowly looking up,
She locks eyes with them.
“What else should I do?
Just lay in the sun and the dirt
Like that one over there,
Like this one over here?”
*
That one over there is covered with tarp,
This one over here is not,
Quite openly rots.
A concrete edifice Is gored,
Split open again and again.
A residual smoke is wafting
Out from the blackened interiors,
Smelling foul.
*
Beneath the heavens,
This woman continues her planting.
It is a prayerful act, beseeching rain,
Beseeching….
The bulbs are a variety of iris.
When the iris bloom, we instinctively know
Each flower will be colored
By the mystery of an irrepressible life.
*
Their stalks will wave in the wind.
Will they catch the Eye of God?
Lord hear our prayer:
Sear
The spiritual sores of the oppressed.
Scorch
The souls of the oppressors
As they finally find their shame.
*
*
Steven Golden
May 2nd, 2022
stevengoldenpoetry 