Weed in the Median

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.