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One thoughtful head was gray, the other blond.
Three hours they walked toward the voting booth
in nineteen forty-five, on a spring day.
They knew little. Spring was the only truth.
Three hours, they walked toward the voting booth,
the grandmother and the eight-year-old girl.
They knew little. Spring was the only truth:
along the roadside they watched it unfurl.
The grandmother and the eight-year-old girl
Still wore shoes with soles cut out of old tires.
Yet, along the roadside they watched unfurl
quick leaves and nameless flowers' blue fires.
Wearing shoes with soles cut out of old tires,
they couldn't help the blisters on their feet.
Quick leaves and nameless flowers' bursting blue fires
cushioned them when they decided to eat.
They couldn't help the blisters on their feet,
but the war was over. The fizzing grass
cushioned them when they decided to eat.
Though they still looked up, no shattered sharp glass
fell. The war was over. The laughing grass
told them everything would work out just fine.
Though they watched out, no blood-thirsty glass
flew when they came into town and joined the line.
A man told them things would work out just fine;
the grandmother managed to hide her fear
inside the office when they joined the line.
The girl could read, the woman only hear.
Into the voting booth they disappeared
in nineteen forty-five, on a spring day.
My mother read, her grandmother voted;
One thoughful head was blond, the other gray.
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