Wild Flowers
by Mark Harm

A haze of smoke hangs over the ash-strewn ground
Where golden wheat once reached towards the sun
Promising plenty the whole year round
Now sowed with the bones of those who had run

A lone woman walks, weary from endless toil
Reaching down with a sharply pointed reed
To dig small holes in the fire-baked soil
And drop in each a tiny seed

When the summer rain finally falls
Melding the earth with the ash and blood
The young seeds the summer sun calls
And wildflowers burst forth from the mud

Then a soft smile graces their planterís face
She lays back against a blossoming apple tree
Her broken heart resting from its endless race
As her tired soul is finally set free