First a spark, then flames of floral consensus.
We’re a patch on a hill under a freeway

with enough mineral seepage to start a yellow riot.
A thousand button heads bowed beneath

the concrete proscenium—roar of idling engines
and the screech-hiss-honk we’ve come to hear

as applause. Just look at those cars lining up.
Eyes cast on us not the road. We’re candy

for the weary and ground-trodden, lemony pearls
at the city’s soot-stained feet. In the quotidian

straits of rush hour, where boulderday meets
bouldernight, we dash the blues with our siren

show, landscape boosting your nerves
for the long drive home. No need to thank us;

we thrive on simple gifts. Bouquet to the world
of sun-stung blossoms, our own standing ovation.