All the Colorful Wildflowers (and the humans who witness them)

Thinking of Dachau;

how, sixty years on, blossoms

burst from the blood ditch.

Grief fades to anger.

Rage terrorizes victims.

War cries repeal love.

In the heavy fog,

they will disappear, unseen,

in a ditch somewhere.

Only they return,

volunteered, as wildflowers.

Petaled in pastels.

No papers needed;

no permits to return now.

Just to give solace

to a passerby;

a visitor on a tour,

witnessing ovens,

sixty years after.

But my memory of it,

Dachau, grows rusty.

It is happening

again. Only different.

Never again… but…

Without contrition,

it is explained, justified;

nothing new, they say.

Like mowing the grass

rising between flowers just

beyond the smart fence.