Six Minutes and Twenty Seconds

The generosity of silence
Spreads as ripples on a pond or light waves
Fresh and sweet as the tears on a childs face.

We are left holding hands and signs in crayon and tempera,
That point the way forward with few
Yellow caution lights but no flashing red

Sparks from muzzles or fireworks from the halls
Of Congress. Yes, the children will lead us
Because we have fallen on our own swords

And left them wandering in the desert,
Only to water it green with their tears.

*For the brave young people from Parkland and their March for Our Lives