Sunflowers

 

There’s a war in Ukraine and I am sitting in my warm home pondering springtime daffodils.

 

There’s a war in Ukraine and, on the news, Ukrainian people are begging foreign journalists, in their best English, to send help.

 

There’s a war in Ukraine and men in suits are talking about it.

Men in suits are negotiating.

Men in suits are pulling the levers.

 

There’s a war in Ukraine and where are the women?

In the west, if they are lucky, carrying their children and pets.

Did they leave their husbands and fathers behind?

Did they leave their oldest sons?

Did they leave behind their sisters, in basements, listening to blast after unending blast, smelling smoke and dust, praying for peace, for an end?

Are they tempted to give up their resolve to make the pain and the noise and the dying stop?

 

There’s a war in Ukraine and their leader is an actor, trained to consider the feelings of others, their motivation, trained to consider the best lighting to inspire.

And he has inspired.

He has rallied the sympathy of nations.

They cheer and wear blue and yellow.

They share sunflowers and Ukrainian flags on their social media.

 

They make speeches of support while Ukraine burns.

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