“A wild flower growing in between cement pavings”

Between the city’s heavy feet,  
Where hurried echoes drum the street,  
A single bloom—so small, so slight—  
Unfurls her petals to the light.  

She does not have a field for bed:  
No velvet moss, no earthy thread;  
Steel shadows fence her, hard and high,  
Yet still she stretches to the sky.  

Her stem is green against the gray,  
A slender hope in shades of May.  
Each morning sun, each silver rain,  
She drinks with joy through stubborn pain.  

The traffic roars, the faces pass,  
Unseeing of her painted glass—  
A streak of blue, a tip of gold,  
A story, brave and somehow bold.  

O wild flower, in graven stone,  
Your roots like dreamers, all alone;  
You lift your song where none belongs—  
A stubborn bloom, a soft-wrought song.  

You speak what poets can’t convey:  
How beauty dares to find its way  
In cracks that others call despair—  
A wild flower blooming there.

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