the little green clovers drop their roots
between those slabs of asphalt we humans pour
on everything, and we yank them out of their
sidewalk shantytowns, manicuring our lawns,
aspiring bourgeoisie disregarding the mundane miracle
we behold everyday:
there is life between the cracks
yearning, that unceasing desire to be, a drive to exist so powerful
one that ignores its constraints, its hostile environment
but simply flowers, shamelessly, unabashedly
glowing in the sun, those little clovers
ignore their fragility, abandon their precarity
and just grow.
to sing like a weed, to dance in the wind on a thin stem
to be so radiant is something we unlearn
and we forget how to be god
