Black-Eyed Susans

by Russell Rowland

The trail crosses a meadow,
flowery now with what appear to be daisies
that lost a battle but won the war.

For each one of them there is surely a woman

who had little hope except the rule of thumb;
otherwise took what came—

often a black eye, though never a scarlet A.

Leave them the meadow, as an out-of-door
sanctum of sisterhood,
far from locked doors and lack of recourse.

Discourage children
from picking, who have never watched

their mommies soak a blackened eye,

and maybe even have
dads or stepdads who aren’t ashamed to cry.