Monday, June 6, 2022


So you'd really like to know:
how could those 
illustrious trees—

so splendidly tall,
who pose 
with touched hands

above the middle 
of your street—

seem both 
so old and wise, and yet 
never born at all?

Is it because 
there's simply no other way, 

if you hope to hold 
and keep safe 
and remember every detail,

than to move 
as slow and privately
as physics will abide—

or better yet, 
when the rest of the world 
looks on at you eagerly,

and expects you to grow
(as it will without fail), 

to maybe just sway 
in the noncommittal 
breeze a little, 

but otherwise 
keep perfectly, troublingly