Fireweed
By Karen Shepherd
The fireweed flowers push back, clusters pink:
defiant color breaking through the grim
scorched landscape. Spikes of petals linked
to capsules bearing silky seeds that swim
through summer smoke, volcanic flow, the bomb’s
destruction. Wispy parachutes released
by wind, the fluffy strands transport with calm
the cells’ reminder that there might be peace.
She spreads her seeds to places dark and far
and colonizes meadows left to mourn.
Persistent despite the earth’s burning wars,
she always will find ways to be reborn.
A shadow’s cast in our national sky.
Small hopes she holds on stems that reach so high.
Karen Shepherd is a public school administrator who enjoys reading, writing and reflecting on the small moments in daily life. She lives with her husband and two teenagers in the Pacific Northwest, where she kayaks, walks in forests and listens to the rain. Her poems and fiction have been published in riverbabble, Literally Stories, CircleShow, Sediments Literary Art Journal, Dime Show Review, The Society of Classical Poets and Poets Reading the News.
Photo credit: Flaezk via a Creative Commons license.