To the Man with the Haunted Look
who found me at the end of a line
of black-clad allies holding warning signs
and said, “I get it. I see. But what do I do?”
Here is what I wish I’d said,
as forests bloom across the land,
graced by protest songs & second spring:
We may use our minds to harvest hope,
our hearts to store and ferment,
but only hands can grow.
While gourds swell to pie-sweet fullness,
a Renaissance born of cast-away seeds,
left to rot in compost heaps –
Bring your whole body to the work.
Any work disdained by men in towers gold.
Gather, tend, and feed.
Every child’s hurt seen,
every desperate human helped,
this is how we sow Resistance fields.
As for the ones who loom and leer?
Oh, the whispers they claim to ignore
will build the thunder rolling over them.
Each drop of water they discard
(while mocking thirst, disdaining drought)
augments the flood that breaks them.
Hear the Rumblings – or bury your head
like the golden tower man.
We persist, seed-gathering.
Meanwhile, the giantess stirs.
America the good, rising with her kin.
Grandmothers’ gardens sprout anew.
What they have broken, we are here to mend.
Remember Rosie: “We can do it.”
Rain is on the wind. We can do it, again.
Anya Woodhall is a local Olympia writer. She draws her inspiration from the beautiful lands and waters that surround us – and from the quirky, vibrant community they nourish.
Be First to Comment