Each winter, snowplows sprayed
salt showers on tiny stars,
pointed as glacial chips, small
tan colored nosegays hugging
asphalt, poking cracks in the interstate.
Some would call them weeds.
We picked armfuls.
They stood in a vase for years,
a mix of black walnut and nutmeg,
until only the scent of dust remained.
Just now, from the train,
I saw them—tight tuffs sticking
sideways in creosote soaked ties,
lasting...in wind, exhaust
and early autumn heat—
there then, here now, outlasting us.