by Lisa M. Gott
Dried tendrils of overgrown grass
sing out into the wind —
We have a story to tell.
Tucked beneath their blanket,
spotted earth painted with blood and tears;
droplets of dew encase secrets
of battered and bruised indentions
from heavy steps scarring soil,
but like a seashell, their cries remain;
head to earth, you can hear them —
We have a story to tell.
Now resting amongst the dust,
sprinkled remnants of the past,
of shots cascading over fearful lands
and mournful goodbyes
to loved ones who can’t hear them;
hands clutched to hearts,
their memories litter once fertile ground.
Dark clouds witnessed their fight,
drooping their heads,
they cried along with them.
But the sun pushed away the dark,
refusing to succumb to the storm,
spreading rays of promise.
And from the ashes of the past,
bright golden arms reach out
grabbing at the light and blossoming.
Even battlefields have flowers.