Look at her selling books at flea markets,
the weediest person I ever saw—
despite multiple attempts to cultivate her,
she remains herself. No apologies. No regrets.
She’s read each book twice: sci-fi and murder
mysteries, finding God and edible
flowers, busking and classical drama,
Simone, Maya, e.e., A.A. and me.
In flowered shirt and toe-cut tennis shoes,
she hums blues in parking lots of vendors
as if normalcy existed as foil
to exceptional, as if God’s treasure.
And she is like a dandelion tree in
in a plastic sea, parachuting seeds
that will grow minds and imagination
in any ground, government and season.
For my prompt
Copyright © 2015 S.L.Chast