growth, sun, san francisco

I. Old waves sigh

like farmers watching

strip malls sprout

from strawberry fields.

Like farmers,

each high tide

remembers

holding muddy earth

in its hands,

sowing among dunes and cliffs

a peninsula.

II. Once sowed,

roots of a city

planted on peninsula

are bound between

terra cotta pot

sea walls.

Growth is sunward,

light a privilege

forgotten by

lead heavy blood

pressed,

pulsing

through paved arteries

of street life

far below

post card skylines.

III. At the edge of

Golden Gate Park

a girl the streets call

Little One,

holds a potted baby rose

blooming blood red.

The rose,

stolen earlier that morning,

is a Valentine’s Day gift.

Moving her face

close to cupped petals

she breathes in

red bloom sweetness,

growth,

love for a moment,

and says:

“I think I’ll find a sunny spot and plant it.”