When I first saw you,
you were burned by summer sun,
tangled in ropes of bindweed
and choked by desert weeds.
I saw something of myself.
My biography was written
in earth-packed scars left where dogs
had raced the mail trucks
barking at strangers,
in the furrows of truck tires
left seasons ago to fill with weeds,
and in tattered remnants of
once-beautiful flower beds.
It was too much for me,
I had no way to heal you,
no water to bring life.
I turned away.
But after the winter cold
was warmed by the return of the sun
your fight thrust forth in
purple crocuses and yellow daffodils.
Hyacinth spread an indigo cloak
over the bindweed of last year,
bringing beauty and color
to what I thought was utterly gone.
I again saw something of myself,
life cracking the shell of ruin,
Needing no one else to nourish it
or recognize its beauty.
I still had no way to heal you,
no way to give what you needed,
but I fought with you,
because I needed you.
Clearing what was dead
to make way for what could still live,
I planted hope with the daisies
and joy with the marigolds.