California
Poppy
Wind
of semi-trucks, traffic and concrete,
bitumen,
litter, shredded tires. Leavings.
Detritus.
Homeless objects lost in our creations,
our architecture
of efficiency. Then, there.
Look.
The poppy, at home in the soulless
spaces,
roots digging into every corner,
groove,
and crack. Living on the shoulders
of overpasses,
freeways, or between
slabs
of sidewalks, roads, and medians.
Subsisting
on the smallest speck of dirt,
oracles
of life beneath our crumbling
structures,
our failed attempts to build
better
than what the earth provides. All
these orange
flowers shaking stems and
petals
as if they are bodies in trance
divining the
language of the earth,
conduits,
as the planet cradle us,
and
continues to give and give and
give.
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