“they paved paradise”
I always wondered what those trees,
with the metal grates around their trunks,
say to each other –
reaching for the sun
from concrete or asphalt
they must wonder where the rest of their families live –
“movin’ on up”
to the tops of high rises
where too many fallen leaves kill passers-by.
Can they hear the whispers of their family
in the wooded lots in suburbia,
where petitions,
written on paper,
saves trees –
the irony is not lost on them
(they are a clever lot).
I worry for them,
those Grandmother Cedars
and Grandfather Oaks,
living in these silent, concrete wastelands
where roots get revenge on water mains
and dandelions force themselves through cracks in concrete
to tell the urban dwellers
that beauty is possible where nothing seems to grow –
until you look for it.
(c) r.l.elke
This is my stop