A flower’s destiny depends upon
where the sower scatters seeds. There are
those flowers which live in gardens
and spring up to be watered and
tended and bought and sold as they
make plain spaces lovely again.
White lilies bloom on the steps
in a church. Their petals wil bandage
the grieving, fractured hearts
A sign in a storefront reads, “Roses,
sweet roses for sweeter lovers.” Several roses
sell. Some sit and wait until they wilt.
Some flowers spring up in the fields
where once all flowers lived, and they thrive
for the spring and die in the summer.
But the highway flowers landed in
crevices where they pray for a quiet life
among pavement and shaking earth.
When the sower tossed his seeds along
the path, I wonder if he knew about these cracks
where poppies somehow bloom.
I wonder if he ever visits the highway
flowers, if he waters them and cares for them
the way he gardens the lilies of the field
Are flowers born in fissures dressed
in royal splendor? Are they so marvelous as
the vineyard’s mighty branches?
The rain drizzles down on them as
each car passes, as the flowers grow just
out of grasp of a rogue tire’s tyranny
The rain drizzles down and washes
the grease off their petals, trickles through
cracks to their roots. I wonder if perhaps
a highway, too, can be a garden.