Poetry Is My Protest: Poem #11

Among dried leaves and bones and feces and seeds,
among minerals and coffins and decomposed dreams,

In lagging promises with scraped knees and matted doubts,
We churn the clods of these rented hours.

Here is the soil, the stardust, the salient, untraceable beginnings where worship rises within the riddles and bulbs defy the cold dark.

Here is where we dare to pierce the surface
and ordain brave lilacs
to sing (again) their hopeful refrain.

All meaning you thought was lost and all convenience of decay...
let me say it like this.
a new stalk, a new name,
a new brave.