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Poetry of Issue #8        Page 5


whenever spring
is about to return
to the land of milk
and honey I roam
at large and think
of the wrongfully
accused, the un-
repentant, the mad
ones who stood up
to the authorities;
who refused to obey
or join in on the evil
when called upon
by evil men; the ones
who stepped in the way
of tanks and tear gas,
were trampled to earth
by mobs of men, or
silenced in the dead
of night with a fist or
the butt-end of a
paramilitary rifle;
I roam out and think
about the greening
paths of spring,
I listen and I hear the
alchemy of the defiant
hearts, their resurrection
in every flower in bloom --
crocuses by the woodpile,
snowdrops in the shadows,
hanging their sorrowful heads;
jonquil, hyacinth, daffodil, stiff
with new life; witch hazel, forsythia --
thousand-eyed forsythia, more
plentiful than gold (which flower
is yours); their song made plain,
stronger than hate, their power
to liberate made larger than the
law (which flower is yours, a
jonquil for your thoughts)

(thank God these flowers are so small, i hear the tyrants say, otherwise the people would weaponize them)

A single flower to pick a lock;
A single branch to blind a tyrant's eye;
A thousand swords to empty prisons;
Ten thousand spears to liberate nations.

Lead me to the field where the wildflowers grow
I am a clutch of wrinkled violets
gathered in a child's hand

  George Wallace