Sometimes I wonder–
Is there beauty in the city?
Slush, muck, trash, filth,
Shouts, needles, squished, gray.
It doesn’t take a genius to see
That the city takes a toll on its
People. But sometimes I wonder–
About the old pine out front:
It bends under snow like a
Highway exit, and when I think
Of it still standing–when the cries
Of birds are common as sirens,
Gunshots as woodpeckers–I
Think of my grandmother with
Bent, twisted hands still sewing
For her kids, face wrinkled with
Sorrow and joy and worry. She died
Four years ago full of regret. But
She never had a doubt about
Spending herself for her sons.
And now the aging pine out front
Lost a limb–it groans like the rest
Of mankind–but I think it’ll make it;
There aren’t too many pines in
The city after all.