Poem: What She Begun

Looking to the past, looking to the future.

February was a fine time
for planting seeds
that toppled this tyranny.
Perhaps that’s why it was
her time to be birthed.
Through no fault of her own
she was born to be our guide.
It wasn’t a question of time or place
Purely happenstance, purely luck.
Six of her friends believed her
an adequate candidate
to steer us clear in these brawling days.
Could she be the one foretold?
In theory books and cafe clubs?
Where talk was endless but action finite
and progress elusive?
Could she be the one
to make the people say:
“There is hope for us
to dance and to prance?”
While businessmen rustled their chains–
seeking validation from supporters
they artfully betrayed,
and that of their superiors
who made them feel small so long ago,
she laid the ground for a sweet perfumed
Victory parade for all our lost souls,
carving hearts chiseling minds
in the spirit of every individual she could find.
Hers was a revolution of articulate thought
Of firm footing and determined soles
paving yellow paths towards emerald dreams
Though some thought they fizzled away
From bygone days of pageantry plays.
Each night she thanked her deity so dearly
for bestowing her the strength and resolve
To make sense of our suffering and fealty.
But our eyes were glazed, unfocused
Our own hands and mouths betrayed us,
To hear what she was trying to say.
And though she made headways
in defending us prey,
Her demise went out with scantly a whimper
Locked away beneath a floorboard someplace.
Only those who knew where to press their ears
Could feel that a presence was gone
But there was still merit and worth
in continuing what she begun.

Photo by Evan Buchholz on Unsplash