A clump of bluebonnets stands in the alley long past
Memorial Day. Usually they’re fried by Easter.
In the spring they grow in green pastures, beside busy highways.
Now they look tired, out of place,
like they didn’t get the notice that it’s time
to make room for the warm wild flowers.
Tomorrow is Independence Day, and they’re still there –
barely blue.
The Mexican Hats, the Wine Cups, even
the Firewheels have faded.
Those stubborn bluebonnets hang on like my mother
still thriving through cancer after cancer after cancer.
—Megan Willome, from God in the Yard and The Joy of Poetry,
T. S. Poetry Press