Open to All Kenneth Pobo

Open to All

My morning garden,
a city at rush hour—
blossoms popping into place,

jostling for the best look
at the sun. Some plants
fight—a purple coneflower

so dwarfs my Tropicana
rose, it hardly buds.
When it finally gets one,

it hangs right into the
coneflower bevy, staking
a fierce claim. I read in

a glitzy gardening guide
that gardens are peaceful.
Death is peaceful,

but a garden is alive,
the way a city is, different
each second, open to all.
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