Asphalt Bloom

The old driveway, black and tarred,

has a tiny rupture, a scar.

And through it, impossibly,

a green shoot pushes, reaching for light.

Just one leaf, then another, almost bright

against the dark, stubborn stone.

It shouldn't be there, alone,

so out of place, yet it grows.

No root in soft soil, no kind bed.

Just pure will, or a random seed that fled.

It makes me frown, then almost smile,

this small, insistent, impossible pile.