Open your mouth for the mute,
    in the cause of all who are left desolate.
—Proverbs 31:8

If you breached the peace,
it was as a whale breaches
the salty water,
a smack of astonishment
to remind us
there are giants in the deep.
Still,
after the protest,
they listed you in the police blotter
of the small-town paper.
I say cut it out
with kitchen scissors,
tack it to the mudroom wall,
by the braids of garlic,
the drying leeks,
the jars of maple syrup
tapped from your trees.
Let it weather there,
let its edges curl,
let it ripen
with all these things that have known
dark earth
and secret growth.
When you’re an old lady
shucking off your garden boots,
look at it,
that little mellowed clipping,
and say
“I stood, I cared,
I bothered
even if they bothered me right back.”
And that paper,
yellow as wild honey,
might hold a trace of sweetness yet.