• It’s the plants,
    But not our plants.
    Not the golf greens,
    Or the Christmas trees,
    And especially not the yards with pretty flowers.

    I speak not of human-plants,
    But of the outcasts.
    The ugly plants, the weeds.
    Beaten down by the onset of technology
    And a quest for a sterile perfection

    By our bulldozers
    And cement
    And the soles of our shoes

    Yet they persist.

    Ragged tendrils burst forth from the cracks in our sidewalks
    Twisted vines overtake the white picket fences
    Wildflowers dance among speeding cars,
    Dotting the highway’s margins.

    They are proud.
    Their smug superiority sends them reaching skyward.

    The plants,
    They don’t worry.
    They know,
    And they are patient.

    “We were here before them
    And we'll be there long after they're gone."