growth, sun, san francisco I. Old waves sigh like farmers watching strip malls sprout from strawberry fields. Like farmers, each high tide remembers holding muddy earth in its hands, sowing among dunes and cliffs a peninsula. II. Once sowed, roots of a city planted on peninsula are bound between terra cotta pot sea walls. Growth is sunward, light a privilege forgotten by lead heavy blood pressed, pulsing through paved arteries of street life far below post card skylines. III. At the edge of Golden Gate Park a girl the streets call Little One, holds a potted baby rose blooming blood red. The rose, stolen earlier that morning, is a Valentine’s Day gift. Moving her face close to cupped petals she breathes in red bloom sweetness, growth, love for a moment, and says: “I think I’ll find a sunny spot and plant it.”