They’ll never build tall towers,
twin or otherwise; never erect
a monument to tell the
world the import of their
lives; never patch a quilt of
memories to warm the future’s
cold; never pen a verse of
rhyme to laud their loveliness.
They simply “are,” stars of
stillness glowing in our lives,
radiant against the mud and
weeds of brutal war and hatred
spread across the grasses and the
flowered peoples of our world, from
Gaza to Ukraine, our southern
border to the deserts of Iraq.
Never toiling, never spinning,
serenely shine their pastel joy; and
when their life is spent, they
quiet fade into the ground, their
destiny majestically fulfilled.
I’d like to send a lily prayer to
all who paint our world in black,
scarring lives and landscapes in their
carelessness and greed; perhaps they’d
hush their frenzied work, breathe
deep the pungent scent; listen close to
flowers that so gently sing what
living life is really all about.