It is time the stone made an effort to flower.
For too long it sat waiting to be thrown
through a window, to smash the library shelves,
to bring books to the fire, to crush the skulls
of non-believers who doubt the crown. It is time
the stone made an effort to flower—
to send roots down so deep it can’t be raised
by the mob to hurl at bones not ready
to be broken, bones of the bodies of those
who don’t bow to a god, those whose church
is their own or none. It is time
the stone made an effort to flower,
to bloom in all the shades, not just black
and gray, the stems to be placed
in the barrels of guns, to bleed
in hues tinged pink and rose,
some the color of pride, some glowing
like a flushed cheek sore from so much
smiling. It’s time to spread the news:
the king is dead; stones are for lining
garden beds, roots are to remind us
we were all once rock and now
we can be flowers.