by Rosemary Trommer

 

 In the same breath that I curse the world

I praise it. It is impossible not to see

what a mess we’ve made, and yet … how

relentlessly beautiful the rabbit brush

blooms in the ditch, all yellow and vigorous,

growing out of the busted up asphalt

and Marlboro boxes and twisted beer cans.

It’s no miracle, you might say. It’s just a weed.

But I know a miracle when I see one.

It looks a lot like whatever is happening

outside the window right now.