Waiting for a green turn arrow,
there, at Skyline and Sharp Park,
there's cement median strip
marking a boundary
between northbound and
southbound lanes;
it is an old section
of road at a boundary
between earth and sky;
every cardinal direction,
a choice.
Growning in cracks
in the concrete
anyone can see a sparse
clump here, an individual
weed there, swaying in a wind,
some with tiny flowers,
all as green as spring
and alike as twins,
though standing solitary,
others grouped like
a small gathering
of brothers, none aware
that his look alike
carries a similar burden,
Every individual and group,
a headstone for multitudes,
in a cemetery for their dry
and discolored fellows,.
every destiny the same
a season of sun then fog
and rain, finally to be
forgotten as a distraction
from perfection.
Just a weed in the median.
