growing in a crack
of hot concrete.
Flowering in futility,
blossoming beautifully.
It’s like a clumsy gift
given by a baby.
I take hope
in rare glimpses
of kindness in the crematorium
we call existence.
I find them mostly
hiding in the eyes
of kids and dogs and grandmas.
kind acts so subtle
you could crush them with a feather.
They are free, however, living
for whatever silly reasons they have.
sniffing butts and licking faces,
relaxing in their rocking chair,
deflowering a hundred dandelions.
I might just join them someday.
Will I meet you there?
