Only three
made it finally
past infancy and bad dirt—
three of 50 planted!
How long they took
to break ground, and longer
still (suffering from storms)
to push up into their spindly,
lemon-yellow young
adulthood in the front yard.

But what about that fourth—
wind-broken but now, somehow, stem healing,
kneeling alongside the others, coming forth
in a last-minute, right-angled bloom—some
miracle of will? Some
focused surge of sunflower self?

Disappointed woman, give
the healing one some
homage. Give
all four praise
for their perfect awkward offering—icons
of happiness, food
for cardinals and squirrels (and me)
They soothe me by seeming
to see me

In the moonlight they smile—
seeded, blossom-bonneted faces
breeze-bobbing, swaying
in a gentle reggae—

Three stand, one kneels,
wise men with their camel,
looking up. It’s us. We’re here.

Virginia Weir