I don’t know much about warfare
but I’ve visited the trenches.
Once I looked from afar but
I’ve crossed the embankment.
I don’t know if the enemy retreats,
but I know that when love
seems to ebb and flow
like the tide, or the faces of the moon,
it always resurfaces.
Like the gravity
that holds us together,
it’s always there.

I don’t know why
children go hungry;
I only know
that we must feed them.
I don’t know why
children are silent;
I only know
that we must sing to them.
Even the tightfisted boy
will join in the song.
Even if he is silent,
the way he stands now,
close to the others,
is the opening of a song.

To see the flowers in the trenches,
you must first roll up your sleeves.
Plant some seeds, maybe.
Carry some water.
Last summer,
despite the drought
and the tramping
of combat boots,
flowers
in the drought-stricken valleys
raised their throats
among the grasses
and sang.