Rows of lavender lunge
against the plastered stone wall
that sequesters the brilliant,
purple bushes from
the ancient Provencal farmhouse,
standing stoically on the Plains.

The wall, almost as old as
the farmhouse itself, keeps
utilitarian flora in
and extravagant varieties out.
It knows no other function.

Lavender, in all its aromatic,
purple plumage, doesn't mind.
It will seek out each crack,
each empty space, each low
spot in the wall to slither through
to the other side.

Lavender knows, as the wily
farmer cannot, that beauty
will always prevail, no matter
what obstacles stand
in its way.

Beauty thrives, stronger than
the building of any wall.
It knows that all its fellow
plants think likewise,
stretching toward extravagance,
their whole life long.

Beauty is their destiny.