I think of the guerilla gardeners, straining
to dig deep, camouflaged by night,
spreading seed pellets that dissolve in the rain,
flowering concrete, setting road islands alight,
never worrying if the smog blocks the sun
or if that slash of colour lasts,
because that poppy jutting through paving stones
is a declaration that life will out.
And so with you; what does it matter
if you faded before you could grow,
if they glanced your way momentarily
before moving on, because what’s been sown
never truly dies. There’s that latent spark,
those roots digging in, aerating the dark.