Garden Caesura

Battered Hills after the storm,
Soil turned, still warm.
Each plot with flowers is now filled,
Petals spreading rose red. Blood from the killed.

As from fingers flown,
Seeds are sown,
Falling far to precious earth below,
What shall they grow? Impact, Bloom, explosions glow.

Every action sows seed,
Whether oak, flower, grass, or weed,
Or turns soil, waters trees,
Or can even prune.  But war, cuts down all it sees.