Without Permission

I passed it every day for months.

Didn't notice. Now it's tall—

thick-stemmed, almost woody, the kind

that doesn't care at all

about the concrete on each side.

The crack is wider where the root

went in. I can see it angled there,

the whole weight of the shoot

leaning slightly toward the street.

Gone to seed. White tufts spread.

The stem holds steady in the wind—

not brave. Not anything. Just fed

by whatever water finds a crack.

Nobody pulled it.

I didn't pull it either.

Just kept walking past and missed it

for however long it took to grow

this tall, this obvious, this gone

to seed. Not a metaphor I want.

Just a thing that keeps going on.