Blossoms like the fluted bells 

of miniature horns, these white flowers

less than an inch across, interrupting

the grass between sidewalk and street—

is this what it means to be joyous?

Tiny yellow stamens echoing the sun;

delicate violet ribbing echoing the dark.

Who were they in another life?

Men and women who drew each moment

lovingly into their bodies, admitting

their weakness, offering it to the world.

Humility means no pushing and shoving

to accept a place with all that lives.

Not much of that in you. You survive

by your elbows. Squatting down,

you touch their white flesh, filled

with light, open to the rain. You envy

the lives they must have had, fortunate

souls continuing in good fortune.

What does it mean to be joyous,

to transform one’s frailty into flower?

But even that judgment must be wrong.

To you the image of weakness is a wolf

offering its neck to the pack. Such

sacrifice is beyond your comprehension.

Effortlessly these flowers bear the gifts

that remain to you a mystery. Think

of the boots that will crush them here,

trash cans and car tires yanked over the curb.

Even in life their death couldn’t scare them.

Can’t that be a definition of beauty:

an indifference to consequence,

and embrace of the darkest possibility?

Isn’t the courage of their acceptance

greater than the courage of your denial?

White blossoms touched with purple,

their beauty persists in them still.

These lives are not yours. Be grateful

that they breathed. Push on, push on.

Roar your meager motor even louder.