I live where the wildflowers grow
Between the lots in two straight rows
Where an old truck used to bed and lay
Rumble-wake and leave for the day
I live where the paper boats sway
Along the oily slick of a heat-washed quay
Where traffic notices drift like orange preservers
Down the gutter beneath iron girders
My home is the home of robins and sparrows
Darting between the dark and narrow
Corners of scaffolds and geranium bowls
Scraping crumbs around human soles
Hurrying, here and there
Never quite slow or unaware
Of a grime-proud, asphalt-choked weed insistent
On making a beautiful life
3 thoughts on “Where the Wildflowers Grow”
Wow, this is wonderful–sheer perfection.
Thank you! This is one I’m very proud of.
As you should be!