What I Know
So much commotion on the street,
Concerned voices,
Expert opinions,
As if a beehive was kicked.
Loud voices,
People do like hearing
Themselves speak.
Declaring the truths
I should believe.
I mind my own
And dig.
The soil
Is soft and gives in,
Welcomes my hands,
Asks for seeds.
All around me
—Outrage—
Telling me
Who I should condemn–
I hold my own
And dig,
Until my fingers feel
Like roots,
Growing,
And the soil nourishes me,
Teaches me to draw strength
From that place
Deep within.
I tend to the seedlings,
Giving them water
Of my quiet tears.
Din of voices grows lowder still.
I dig,
The soil is quiet,
Like me.
They ask for my input.
—What I think—
Doesn’t matter!
It doesn’t absolve
Participants from atrocities
They have wrought
And won’t make
A goddamn difference
In the outcome of this war,
Or replace lives lost,
Or wrecked homes.
So I dig,
And I give,
As the soil has taught me,
Colorful flowers raise
Their innocent heads to the sky
On my side of the street,
Until people
Forget outrage and despair
In smiles,
If just for a minute,
“Oh, what a beautiful garden you have!”
©Olga Gavrilovskiy 2022
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