He knows.
If his tear wants to travel
down,
towards a sunny field of sunflowers
and be a salty drink to warrior bees,
savvy of the strength of the many,
regardless of size or gift,
daringly,
pollinating new outcomes
before it falls unto the scorched earth,
where underneath the
dead lie,
embraced in ignorance,
he won’t stop it.
He knows.
Where mouths are dry for want of words,
no tear can ever quench.
He knows.
On papers seized to crumble truth,
a tear will only stain.
He knows.
Where sunflower seeds are sown,
among the debris of despair,
what’s pollinated, buds a warning:
Freedom.
It’s lost on minds, unoccupied.
It’s lost to minds, preoccupied.
He knows the bees have heeded.
And he?
He sheds another tear.
© 17 April 2022 Jacquelene Martina