Aka: The Brief Season Poem by Romella Kitchens

Wax political & no one will hear you,
those of the selfish word and cold
rejection of all but neglect might even
fear you -

If you think of the petals of a
flower,
they are like Black people
who have not attained...
Dying in some part after their
brief season, few knowing they
as individuals even existed cutting
at stems of what progress ever made
or walking by the deadened leafs
so busy with the everyday-
remember, economics save those who
have them, not those who have tried
but do not have, have been stamped from
attaining. Kings and queens lose legacies
redefined by cultural lines all the time.
Snow flowers.
Rain flowers.
Flowers of the bleeding feet
and hungry belly.
Flowers who do not summer
here or winter there.
Nor, tote this purseAd pretention
nor that.
Flowers who knew not rap, or sports
nor chemistry or math enough to break
free of cyclical repression - as it is
said to be an obstacle that does not
exist. Flowers held in by the fence, no
gate open, water a factor rationed out
and for control of their roots and growth.

Flowers who still hear gunshots
and police sirens all night and
awaken to the truths of urban
blood on urban petal,
yet are wise in their stamens
and their sepals and thus are
relentless in the struggle to
another season. Relentless in
what can be done. Relentless in
wanting kinder global eyes to preceive
their beauty.