To Push Away The Universe Itself

Not far from here by a big parking lot
near the edge where asphalt meets the sidewalk
there is a square but crumbling old boulder
and leaning against the old piece of rock
is a tall spindly yellow wildflower.
I believe the stone is a discarded
decorative boulder, weathered, chipped, misshaped.
The wildflower leans against the boulder.
I believe the support from the boulder
allowed the wildflower to grow too tall
and now the plant seems too thin for its height.
Winter is coming. Strong winds. Heavy snow.
I believe water seeping into cracks
and freezing to ice will break the boulder
and reduce it finally just to stones.
The wildflower, too frail, will fold, collapse.
By spring the edge of the big parking lot
just will be asphalt and concrete sidewalk.
But right now there’s a beautiful, gentle
yellow flower leaning against a rock
and the tiny yellow blossom is bright
so bright above the simple gray boulder
the flower looks like a star out in space
and the stone looks like a rocky planet
illuminated by the golden glow,
a star and planet, a solar system,
and whether galaxies explode, collapse
or crumble between the fingers of God,
right now there is a beautiful, gentle
yellow flower leaning against a rock
and right now that passing scene is enough
to push away the universe itself
as the stupid fucking good for nothing
cosmos tries to die its entropic death.
The wildflower and the boulder just laugh
and say, “No. Not right now. Come back later.”