He held the carnations tight 

between his index finger and thumb

And he rooted it safely 

within the barrel of the gun

He returned its stem 

to mineral-made gunpowder from which it once grew

In hopes of preserving 

the spirit of what is true

The sergeant uprooted a flower from his gun 

But the message had been sent

All our good had been done

The gunman’s soul had already been saved

Since it’s better planting flowers there 

than on our own children’s graves

Hibiscus’ message 

had already been preached

And their ironclad hearts 

had already been reached