This bush has yellow flowers

              No one is here to see –

Little bangs, little tassels,

              Little butterballs that

This old plant grows prolifically, even still,

After years of struggle in this

              Impoverished soil and dry wind,

                             Bark gray, leaves pale,

                                           Weathered, lichen-stained, faded,

                                                         Pressing on.

Here in a wood where no one goes,

Far from the cosmopolitan gardens

              And bustling cared-about places,

In a patch of weeds and wild grasses,

Little bursts of vibrant yellow

              No one is here to see.