A few small flowers grow from the rubble,
tiny, white, incredibly stubborn, they rise in spring,
and survived long into the summer.
It would be easy to pass them by,
The path through the quarry is strewn
with greenery and flashier flowers.
But these will pass quickly. Shallow roots
will be strangled by slate slabs,
and dry up in the July heat
while these survive. Never in a bouquet,
they dance in the wind, unnoticed survivors,
full of joy and promise, and power
About this poem
The picture was taken in the quarry across the road from my house. I have no idea what the flowers are, but while other wildflowers rise and bloom for a week or two before fading, these survive all summer long.
So a poem about flowers. And a poem about the people around us, who unnoticed, survive the trauma, terror, struggles of life, and retain their beauty and grace.