From lampost and hoarding, power pole and

bankrupt storefront, fresh printed or in tatters mingle the shouting fragments and detritus of

the otherwise voiceless.  Cryptic right-wing spray paint along side rock and roll rant in the comfortable ose of rebellion both yielding

space uneasily to wordy explanations of

religions short of devotees and invitations to peace marches; always recognizable by the Dance classes, meditation seminars, dating

clubs, all hinting sex and success vie with

poorly spelled slogans of a dimly imagined revolution or as they often have it, revelution, which is better or at least more honest and all

together they cover ever unguarded flat

surface in the centre of this place where we live.

 

Some days they seem like flowers, the blooms

of the city.  They blossom, defiant of seasons and elements, for in their hopefulness, they

have found eternal spring.  They are to me

flowers, hopeful in the face of hopelessness

and like all flowers, they care nothing for the

inevitability of the fall.  Some days they are to

me flowers in the garden we have made, brash

in their beauty, forlorn in their fading.

No single flower ever changed the world but

try to imagine a world without flowers.