I lift and stake the heavy-headed
pink-white lilies.  Their freckled
cheeks, curving petals toppled
after last night’s hard brief rain.
Now they face the sky.

Then clip the gone-to-seed stalks
of the no-name ground cover—tiny
succulent knobs running along
the ground.  Walk downhill a mile
to mail two paid bills—walk back up

chanting morning prayers.  Will stretch, bend
do all the moves to keep these muscles
strong, my joints smooth moving,
then write my plea to friends—
Work, please, to end the torment

of the men unjustly held at Guantanamo’s prison. 
I make my calls as I hunger my way
through this day, and name those starved
for justice.  These men whose suffering
I ask our leaders, week after week, year

by year to end.  These men I’ll never
meet, yet every week I lift up
their need for freedom.  My hands
are stained with lily pollen,
the hue of dark dried blood. 

The lilies lifting their stamens,
their pistil tongues toward
the passing clouds, lick the light
falling everywhere around us.
                                    8/6/2014