Only grows in bad soil,
by a roadside, say,
or under a highway overpass.
My mother would pull over
as if broken down or with a flat
and cut an 18th-century ruff
for a head of aristocratic roses.

The Queen Anne’s lace would last
longer than the flowers, reminder
you can’t grow purity in a greenhouse,
not with a store-bought mix
or the scientific care
of horticulturalists. Only
dirt that has suffered from
the wrong elements can do it,
suffered degradation,
and the artists who desire
beauty badly enough kneel
and ignore the ache
of reverence.

            i.m. Virginia Stewart