Survivor
 
It was the killing time. Upon
young dandelions, nettles, buttercups, I poured
a terrible rain. Aspiring leaves
 
became slate-grey, and failed,
and fell to earth. The chosen
tulips and crocus prospered as they should.
 
But one day, after a night of rain,
out of this plain of death, this poor
afflicted piece of earth,
 
it had grown: a single dandelion head,
a golden disc, a little sun,
proud as an Easter lily,
 
saying, ‘It is Spring’.