Did raindrops land like heartbeats
when they ran for the fields,
when night came for them?
Did raindrops land like scars
on the arms of refugees?
They didn’t know that orange
could be a sky or a fruit
or an escape from the wind
in her hair as she ran
from the storm reaching
into her chest,
pulling out a thread
of pink hope worn
to frayed patchwork.
They didn’t know fire could
be a place to sleep rather
than a place to burn
for secret pink threads.
February 16, 2023