Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Monday, June 14, 2021

Sonnet #338

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.

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