Green stubbornness

Plastic bag lands

like a fallen flag,

wrapping tight the cracked street,

the asphalt’s scar.

But the sprout does not care for flags

or roads marked with lines

meant to contain, to vanish.

It splits the cold stone

and bends, a stubborn spit of green.

Its leaf edges pinched by wind,

bent but stubborn, a sharp tongue

slicing through gray silence.

And still,

there it stands,

a flicker pressed between two worlds,

knowing neither gives way.

The wind huffs and moves on,

this weed holds its own.