Where the Wildflowers Grow


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
Anywhere, persistent.



On the last day of April
The cherry trees besides my home
Have passed the height of their blooming season
And boughs have grown weary with their
Pinkish charges which now litter the streets.
Finding no delight in the windfall
I turn my eyes upon the crabapple instead —
Blossoms of white flesh
Split ripe from magenta casings —
And fool myself into thinking
Of the impermanence of death.