Traveling north from Dublin, both sides of the highway
roll out in every shade of green, while along the berm
or flush against stone walls: the bright splash of daffodils.
On barren hillsides, the gorse is in bloom, furze
covering the heath, a heap of gold. After the billow
and build of storm clouds, lightning’s piercing needles,
the tumult and cadence of the rain, perhaps this, then,
is rainbow’s end: not glittering treasure, a hoard of coins,
but instead, thorny bushes growing where nothing else
can flourish, blooming for all they’re worth,
just because they can.
~Barbara Crooker

poems online



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