Previously appeared in Social Justice Poetry. 12:03, in front of great stone soldiers and sailors, cars go round and round. A group of ten people stand together, at the steps of the gray, limestone tower, over a hundred years old. Most of them hold white signs, with simple block text: PRAY FOR DARFUR 1 PM A few cars honk or wave, most passersby on foot pick up their pace, drop heads. At 12:04, one couple walks up, in their sixties, still holding hands, asks a sunglassed college girl, holding a sign, “Who is Darfur?” AuthorBrian Burmeister teaches communication at Iowa State University. He is a regular contributor with Cleaver Magazine, and his writing has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. He can be followed on Twitter @bdburmeister.
1 Comment
10/28/2019 07:08:38 pm
I used to think plants are just either green with life or withering brown. I forgot that it also had a stage we don't always notice. Before anything gets consumerd by decomposers, some leaves sport a bright ripe yellow. Sometimes it's yellow green.I guess yellow green is the color of being young. When you are new and awesome but not as awesome as a grown up, you are equally beautiful as a four year old kid. The young is always more beautiful than the old.
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