What you want to tell is

your story, though

you can’t hear it here

where four wildroses have

popped out

despite the wind gusts that

threaten to disperse their petals.

They think it’s just fine

to come to life again and feel

wind and sun touch them in their

particular corner behind

cinderblocks, shaded

by a locust.

If they could sing, I bet they’d sound

like countrywomen, Southern

Baptists, maybe, who migrated

west with the harvests

and sing dark,

melancholic songs at twilight,

when no one’s around.


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