1870-1872

Sowing, cutting, stomping,
the seasons passed,
and he grew almost as tall
as hemp
stalking
her
from afar.

He would never touch her,
never hurt her,
never harvest
her joy.

He watched her
blossom in a way
that made him blush
on the rare occasions
their paths crossed.

Looking down,
each to their own
shoes,

for fear of breaking
too many rules,

offsetting
the almost peace
that almost came
after the generals sent back the troops.

Hanging in the balance, mere exemptions,
refusing to return to their old tasks.
The reprobates swung high.

He picked petals,
that flew downstream.

He would never suffer
to see her plucked
from this earth.

He swore he’d stop
anyone who tried.