The Sunflower Resistance

It is boisterous outside, full of sunshine today,

Meanwhile sunflowers are trampled miles away,

Praying here in my office in Cincinnati,

My thoughts are with Kharkiv, our dear sister city,

The children who laughed and played all day in their streets,

Quickly plucked from their beds, still asleep under sheets,

Street signs were hidden to confuse the intruders,

Civilians rally to stop rioting looters,

But vehicles jam the freeways, no one can leave,

A country bombarded and awaiting reprieve,

Still many will choose not to go, knowing the cost,

Whether their life or the country, they refuse to be lost,

The elderly man and his dog made for the trains,

Fleeing the only home they know, war-torn Ukraine,

But it’s just “women and children” on board for now,

No can tell him when he might be allowed,

A single father pried his toddler from his arms,

Placed on a stranger’s lap bound away from the harm,

Pressing a dirty hand upon the paneled pane,

The small imprint of his child’s palm fogged up by rain,

Not knowing when he might see him again,

What choice could be right when facing the end?

Nurses in pajamas snatch children from their cribs,

Another NICU destroyed with one empty clip,

They flee to a basement where the cinderblocks hold,

Lives in the balance, with most supplies still on hold,

Women squeeze oxygen, bag two babes at a time,

While the grey-faced preemies lie dead in sep’rate lines,

Speculation abounds…how much bombing tonight?

The sick, orange-green glow of explosions, a specter’s light,

Rockets, shells, and missiles hail down residential,

No longer any pretense of “presidential,”

The currency is no good, the food has run short,

Brave faces melt as living becomes deadly sport,

Citizens lock arms and sing as sirens scream out,

Soldiers force protesters with excess force to ground,

Teenage boys grow up with bloodied faces now set,

Knowing full well they are part of the losing bet,

Intent to drive back Putin’s horrid pestilence,

Or at least give mothers one last line of defense,

A child wrapped in yellow-blue rags holds up a mirror,

To a frightened young soldier, his reflection clear,

His colors ripped off, his identity unknown,

Do the sides matter when so many die alone?

Ukraine refuses to give up on her people,

As the anthem is sung; the world builds a steeple,

The stories pour forth of tactical victories won,

While definitions of “resistance” blend into one,

So I’m grateful, yet guilty, that I am not there,

Where I know help is needed...nearly everywhere,

It’s bad outside, a horrendous, sunny day and

All I can do is lift pen to paper and pray.