Our sons held flowers
in open palms
spun golden thread
from air so thin
it hurt to breathe
it in, and broke
the many hours
it had been
since schoolboys roamed
embattled fields,
their lowered guns
directing aim
at borrowed time,
at holes
fresh cleaved
in garden beds
spades for seed,
petunias, poppies
see them bleed
petals stain
the dirt, shoots of green
to salve the hurt
guns cocked
with dandelions
weaving tenderness
links in daisy chains
the blessings
of the benign
of innocence
uttering the names
of every little man
unhand unarm
offer peace
lilies and open
palms, amen.
Written by Reka Jellema and Kathryn Ross
February 2015
Copyright Kathryn Ross and Rela Jellema 2015
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