Every morning while still in my soft dreamworld
before the reality of nuclear explosions and villages swept away
and bodies tangled and mangled by guns and bombs
I take a barefoot pilgrimage
to pay homage
to my garden.
to the miracle of color and form
and scent and
to the miracle of the power
tragedy and war and cruelty
for one long breath
one short moment.
Somewhere in a refugee camp,
a flower pushes through the mud and tin and cardboard
calling us to the isolated moment.
a miniature joy
calling us to remember a better future.
a miniscule message
empowering us to overcome despair
move once more into action.
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