growing in a crack
of hot concrete.
Flowering in futility.
Blossoming in brutality.
It’s like a clumsy gift
in a toddler’s fist
extended to her brother.
I take hope
in rare glimpses
of kindness in this crematorium
we call existence.
I mostly find them hiding
In the gentle eyes and tongues
of kids and dogs and grandmas,
full of love so gentle yet so strong
they can tickle like a feather
or pierce the heart like a dagger.
They’re brave, aren’t they, living
for whatever silly reasons they have.
To sniff butts and lick faces,
or retire into a rocking chair,
or deflower a hundred dandelions.
I might just join them someday.
Maybe I’ll see my sister there.
Maybe she’ll bring me a clover.
