The little garden -Metaphors and Musings

Ah, I'm such a sentimental muser.

We were driving home, taking the right-shoulder of our street. There was a traffic light, so we, being law-abiding citizens (I think), stopped. Then I saw it. It was a small little patch of grass and weedlike flowers, just on the little barricade seperating our turning lane from the main road. That little, minute patch of grass, daintily surviving amidst the chaos of the city.

In was surprisingly pleasant, looking at that little lush island, stuck in a sea of hardened tar and metal automobiles. One resilient survivor, one unique patch of ground, standing by for greenery and old times, and memories of the great fields of its ancestors.

A butterfly hopped onto one of the flowers. A fugitive, perhaps? Where can a small, six-legged flutterer sleep, in this vast city-maze? Maybe this was his little residence, his little refuge. Maybe he knew that the road and the cars would not swallow this place.

Then the traffic light turned to green, and we drove off, leaving me to think on about that little insect, and his little garden stronghold.