growing in a crack
of hot concrete.
Flowering in futility.
Blossoming in brutality.
It’s like a clumsy gift
clutched in a toddler’s fist,
offered to her older brother.
I remember that flower.
I still take hope
in rare glimpses
of kindness
in this catastrophe we call existence.
I find them first and foremost
In the soft eyes and voices
of kids and dogs and elders,
so gentle yet so strong
they tickle like a feather
and pierce like a dagger.
They’re braver than I, fully living
for whatever silly reasons they have.
To sniff butts and lick faces,
or retire into a rocking chair,
or deflower a thousand dandelions.
I might be lucky enough
to join them someday.
Maybe I’ll see my sister there.
Maybe she’ll bring me a flower.
