A summer of flowers spread from San Francisco
(two years earlier)
to each and every corner,
lush, fragrant, inviting, promiscuous in beauty,
loud, obnoxious, indignant,
sad, mourning, wounded.
There was mud and blood on the streets,
futile wars abroad,
a liar in charge,
and houses full of stern old men
lamenting their lost erections.
The flowers made it special anyway;
their aroma still lingers in my senses.
The moon was full: we looked up to see our footprints
and dreamed of going farther,
when going farther dreams could still belong
to all of us.
I know where the flowers died,
where their petals lay crushed on the snow,
where the snow melted
into sterile mud:
it's all gone.
But I would go back,
there was understanding then
that is gone now.