Flowers on the Hill

Away from town, within the ground, lies the body of Annie Hill
The only sound that stirs the air is a distant re-built lumber mill
Annie drew her last breath at an age too young to die
No one save the shovelers of grave, ‘cept I, pondered why

She was so slight “ain’t she a sight!” her skin a cocoa brown
Orphaned before she turned ten, oh! her mother’s wailing sound
Left alone with God fearing folk her fears would not abate
Then destiny met poor Annie and sealed up her fate

Annie wore a pair of old glasses, with no classes to wear them in
She craved a book that she could read, despite the color of her skin
Accept for admonishments from the “good book” pages were never read
And on a night, in harsh moonlight, little Annie would end up dead

As her masters slept, thin Annie crept, to schoolhouse on a knoll
An open window she shimmied through, her fingers icy cold
She lit a match, and then another, her amazement was profound
For there eyes before, ceiling to floor, were books both cloth and bound

Sweet tears of joy ran down her face, as she abjured rules, as she forgot race
Yet lost in jubilance she didn’t hear, the sound of boots at quickened pace
Two boys burst in on Annie, perhaps they were sixteen, perhaps a year more
And with legs splayed, elation betrayed, slight Annie died on schoolhouse floor

The “boys” were never punished, for Annie was black, when she perished on back
And God fearing folk proclaimed it a sign, as they dumped her body in flour sack
These “brave young men” who committed the crime, grew up to own a lumber mill
Justice came in searing flame, when an ember flared hot on a night that was chill

The flames lit the town as the mill burned down, taking with it a pair wrapped in shame
Their graves are now long forgotten, no immortality, souls defamed
Yet away from town, in arid ground, wildflowers grow and perhaps always will
They thrive in Earth, a patch of mirth…a young “somebody”…the slight Annie Hill