The monstrous clump
offered by a friend next door
grabs light with fingers
full of sun, edging out
lesser neighbors.

A space opens up
on my shadowy east side
where only weeds take over.
It’s worth a try, even though
daisies prefer

the burning skies of summer,
cloudless blue making their white
glow neon,
their yellow centers burst
like ripe peaches.

Dug into the dark region
between an old forsythia
that hasn’t bloomed in years
and a yew planted to hide
the elbows of rusty pipes,

they risk everything to find
another existence with unlikely
friends, their lanky limbs collapsing,
touching, a new communion.