the hope of flowers

and maybe the flowers will tell us today
if we just ask the pavement
"where is she?"
perhaps the leaves will answer
"we saw her over there on our way down to this street"

the sisters behind barking dogs and closed gates
chant
"we dont know go away"
the churches turn their eyes towards god too busy to help

so maybe the flowers will answer
maybe the persimmons will whisper
"she stands gazing here each day at noon come back here tomorrow"

the lazy policemen do their best
giving rides to places we've already looked
the cat with the skin off its back just stares

wounded... we are all so wounded
3 lost girls
wandering the streets
trying to find absolution to the heart wrenching questions carried for one small lifetime
- where is she
ask her maybe she knows...
maybe he knows
the man with the patch o'er his face
maybe he can tell us
where she went

mumbling phonetically "mah-chee-so" "mah-chee-say... mah-chee si... mah-chee si si-yo"
she breaks the moment with a pair of socks
knee high
we smile
for the absurdity of the moment

wondering
- will the flowers tell us?
do they even know?
i doubt the birds will speak
when even halmunis amble off
and god's workers are too busy lighting candles / saying prayers
if this were america i would tell you that the policeman was fat and sitting behind a desk chewing on his bakers dozen donut...
but this is korea
so instead he was average height and weight and giving us vitamin drinks happily chattering on about his son and how neighborhoods get re-assigned and how he should do better at his job

if this were america i would tell you that inbetween the search we got id'd for beers
but this is korea
and we chewed thoughtfully on fried dried squid ordering a second round of something new - something blue...

i do not know if and when the trees will choose to speak
what they and they alone know the answer to
for they were there at birth
and are witnessing the return with seeming utter indifference
only caring about their own seasons
with little time to answer us

and the cat seemingly deaf to its own horrific wound just stares
and the policeman returns home to call his son
and we smoke cigarettes behind vans to not be seen
to take another taxi
to walk another street
to wander counting numbers - knocking ringing doors

the half full moon turned yellow
is telling us the answer

but we lack the language
muttering only phonetic repetitions of new words learned
gurgling like babies

meandering like sheep

some look on with suspicion others round the corner looking for the tv host and fame

the flowers
maybe they know

come now... take my hand... and we'll all three go and ask them...