A clump of bluebonnets stands in the alley
Memorial Day. Usually they’re fried by Easter.
In the spring they grow
in green pastures,
beside busy highways.
Now they look tired, out of place,
like they didn’t get the notice that it’s time
to make room for the warm wildflowers.
Tomorrow is Independence Day, and they’re still there
The Mexican Hats, the Wine Cups, even
the Firewheels have faded.
Those stubborn bluebonnets hang on like my mother,
still thriving through cancer