Ditch-Dancers

Beside the road to nowhere,
wild flowers bask in the blistering sun,
ditch-dancing in the draft of soiled air,
remaining cheerful even with the waft
of death’s over-the-fence in waiting.

Where guard tower shadows seem perpetual.
flowers never seed, even as on hot summer days,
the ditch-dancers graciously
send their wild fragrances up over
the razor wire atop the walls,
across no-man’s land,
and up through my bared window,
lingering until smothered by POW decay.

How scared I am.