“Mark the blameless and behold the upright, for there is a posterity for the man of peace.”

I can’t remember there

being so many foxgloves here.

Every year more and

more appear, it seems.

The corner lot, shorn of its trees,

has exploded into color cacophony

from foxglove seeds long dormant

under the once shaded canopy.

I wonder where the first stalk

staked its belfry claim,

its lonely seeds catching wind

at the violent shaking

of a summer storm or playful deer–

ancestor of all these foxgloves flourishing here.