little blossoms
by the busy road,
growing on the spew of industry
are more beautiful to me
than gardens
cultivated, purposeful,
and green

the wild, road-edge flowers
have no reason but themselves,
a purely unprepared oblation
welling up in beauty
at the whispered voice of God

but those other blooms - those hot-house beauties
are simply what they are
supposed to be.
Perfect in scent, in shape, in size -
everything just so, and just so much
less free.
I sometimes want to say it isn't beauty

but every flower has a name,
so who am I to say
that some are better
than the others?