Fingertips

I watched James Bulgin’s “How the Holocaust Began” – it inspired this.

Every year, for O’ so many years,
The perfectly manicured green fingertips appear.

Clawing their way up towards the sun’s rebirth,
They mark their unseen place beneath the earth.

Signs of Spring, signs of things to come,
Signs of things that cannot be undone.

Labels, markers of the darkest intent,
Locators of the sufficiently different.

In the west, daffodils illuminate homes,
In the east, forests feast on dry human bones.