there is nothing else like flowers

small surprises of color

that meet between bricks

or along fences i wonder

kissing rough surfaces

how can such soft, angelic wisps

unfurl amongst the ragged and rutted?

so i am drawn to them

speckled foxglove or globe amaranth

rustling and brushing together.

some peek out early

squinting through packed snow

while others hang on til late.

i want to learn all their names

and ask

do you prefer august or may?

i stop and watch

their clusters sway

and wonder what they’d have to say

would their loveliness convey

words of contentment and grace

or warnings of danger and decay?