French la Vie

Yesterday on my walk —
the kind I take to loosen the corners of thought —
I found a clutch of wildflowers, dry as bone,
but bright —
bright as if they’d never known the thirst.

A breeze came (finally),
the first in weeks.
It stirred the dust without apology,
lifted the hem of the day,
let the heat have its say
without clenching the whole sky in its fist.

And there, by the roadside —
flowers with yellow faces, beaming.
As if joy was there despite reason.

They weren’t fresh.
No one would press them in a book.
But they offered something —
a pulse in the dry ground.

I brought a few home

they had something to say
about blooming
without permission.