The fire of traffic lights
Regulating the pulse of cars
Driven by fire
Over crusted loam
Beneath a blanket of water in air
Playing peek-a-boo
With the whole round sun
There were thorns
Deemed weeds by the school groundskeeper
Chopped and drying
And a beautiful street-lamp
Wrought-iron and glass
Propped against a potted palm
No fire there
And I crested the hill
And saw
     Ocean
Green against the brown Marin headland
Roofed by the fog
The sign at the school said:

"Of all victories
The first and greatest
Is for a man
To conquer himself."

Where is wholeness?
The irrepressible purple of a petal
Is one answer
Is my answer