Nasturtium
Born in a sour waste lot
You labored up to light,
Bunching what strength you’d got
And running out of sight
Through a knot-hole at last,
To come forth into sun
As if without a past,
Done with it, re-begun.
Now street-side of the fence
You take a few green turns,
Nimble in nonchalance
Before your first flower burns.
From poverty and prison
And undernourishment
A prodigal has risen,
Self-spending, never spent.
Irregular yellow shell
And drooping spur behind…
Not rare but beautiful
— Street-handsome — as you wind
And leap, hold after hold,
A golden runaway,
Still running, strewing gold
From side to side all day.
—Thom Gunn 1929-2004