in blossom, bougainvilleas dripping
pink from their hanging baskets

on front porches across a land
fallow for caretakers, the Good,

their small defiance of the Bad,
its noisy, heavy blast of air

sucking breath from the people
lifting watering cans rejoicing

with another day, its night,
cool rejuvenation, knowing

for now, how stars will story
what we must not forget:

wild flowers in a field of tall grass,
a world of small creatures

causing no harm, nothing uprooted,
only a child’s soft steps bending

a path recovering behind as if
no one had yet passed this way.