We cannot see the forest for the real estate
Our grand trees, all those broad branches
All those little moons and mirrors and revanchist
Root-dwellers, all that food falling free, too late
We come to the discovery of how our caves
Crumble while their branches lift and grow
How living things will always rise above the show
We put upon ourselves of ownership and raves
Of passing fads. All bricks will fall, all trees, too
Except the trees regrow, and when mowers die
The forest was merely waiting, breathing through
The mess we made of everything, sunflowers rise
And oaks remember oaks, and land is land
Is land again, while we forget bricks, staircases, plans.
No comments:
Post a Comment