The Luggage at the Crash Site
There were sunflowers in a field
Just beyond the crash site
Where the red white and blue of the plane
Reminded us just how far we have to travel
Still.
The air was still and on fire
As workers
extinguished the flames of the distinguished
AIDS activists
Mothers
Infants yet to make their mark on the world
Still,
The sunflowers watched from their place
just a bit beyond
Reminding us that no matter how many planes we fly
Or mountains we traverse
If we can’t stand still with each other
It doesn’t matter where we go.
It’s easy to say tragedy
Isn’t it
A word that rolls that doesn’t require so much as a parting of the lips
When in fact tragedy parts the skies
When people end up part and piece of what they could have been
Because we still can’t get along.
The luggage at the crash site
Was so much more than pink rolling suitcases
And yellow carry-ons
And teddy bears with no more arms.
The luggage at the crash site is the hate we carry. Still.
But then there are the sunflowers on the hill.
inspired by: Washington Post article featuring photo by Dominique Faget/AFP/Getty Images
