Cornflowers rooted in the asphalt fissures,
Without proper soil or nutrients or water,
Grow along the apron of a country road.
Nature cannot easily sustain them here.
They survive only by stubborn tenacity.
No matter. Luxuriant purple blossoms
Flourish along sinewy stems and branches
Just as well as in those rich feral gardens
In the sunny woodland meadows nearby.
Improbable as it seems, such things happen,
Life always seems to grab a hold, even thrive,
Despite circumstances, against the gods
Of random chance and benign indifference.
That life will somehow always find its way,
In the fissures as well as the meadows,
Sounds like cliché but is the simple truth.
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