There are no crossroads here, veering off into a red sky where the angry depart and divide their rages. I watch my step. There is an emerald field of peace lilies, but the people battle for bouquets. They bring vases from home and claim ownership & personal knowledge They strike each other & shove. The old are trampled & the babies fall from their mother's hip into battle. They descend like gulls & snap up anything that spells spite or revenge. I touch faces and say stop, but they twist and snap at my fingers. I hide in the bushes while the people take their peace lilies home, grappling for bouquets and screaming an explanation, an addiction to flowers, that make them irresponsible, and no longer accountable for their actions. A flow of butterflies, in vivid colors, flow over their heads with soft questions. They scream replies in a hurricane of hate, that scatter the wings in all directions.
and thus are the beautiful and fragile things of the world vanquished by discord... this is haunting and telling. I have beaded jewelry for over half my life. There is a certain type of beading thread you can get, that is spun from kevlar fibers. One can only hope for the day when butterflies' wings are made of such material, and there are enough lilies to go around.
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I live in the mountains of Southwest Virginia. Although my passion is poetry, I recently published a novel called, Women of the Round Tabl.. more..