The sidewalk outside the store

The sidewalk outside the store,

cracked like old pottery.

A thin line, a fissure on the floor

of the world, for all to see.

And from that tight, hard split,

a yellow head, insistent.

A dandelion, just a bit

of bright, where nothing else is meant

to grow.

It pushes up, no real choice,

against the gray, the grit.

A stubborn, small, singular voice

just doing what is fit.

The light hits it, makes it glow,

a small, fierce star.

Something simple, but I know

its silent, quiet war.