Normally asleep through the long Kingsway ride,
its gruff edges, on both sides, go unnoticed,
Like the white dashes that blur atop the asphalt
as work inches nearer.
But not this morning.
“Partake of this bank,” my inner guide whispers,
“Drink in the rich yellow trefoil,
“The crocheted whites of carrots wild, and
“The mustard flower of the golden yarrow.”
All out to catch father’s golden light,
They sway on the breeze and
Brighten the roadside.
And as the bus rounds the exit ramp,
I tuck them in my heart to appease
that daisy whose flowerhead
grips my ticker like a hound.
White, fresh and fit for film, in this scene she’s ill-set,
Yet, cast amidst unwanted plastic bags and bottles,
She stands in season with various flowering perennials,
Unaware of her class, which the mayor plans to poison.
Similar scenes arise as we pass fields of green,
On Aura Lee, and near the blvd Jubilee, where
Violet-flowered chicory widely supports the land,
Unaware of the graceless and final fall to come.
Along these fenced fields spring others,
Like the yarrow, known for beautifying Confucius’ grave;
The yarrow, who forever safeguards the mountaineer,
and from its roots shares wisdom like a bygone sage.
It’s all lost on the mayor; The mayor who,
though coded kin, woos neither bees nor butterflies;
Plumeless, he fathoms all but the thistle’s pink crown.
He’s too busy stockpiling poison to bring them down;
But he ought to pronounce his challenge to worthier foes, and
valiantly uproot those systems hampering splendour’s spread:
Systems like classism, poverty, and unemployment.