An eye for leaf patterns

didn’t help in the city

but there were reminders

in the soles of sleeping homeless

and fungal pillars

by the docks.

There’s no context

in today’s moral anguish

to reconcile dreams of flowing hair

in a dancing meadow

but we reach silently

for change each time we choose

to read or sing,

even if it’s not the comforting lullaby

we thought we’d have when we got old.

Trees trapped in concrete

know it’s temporary,

no delusions or dreams,

Being with the air that’s left;

we hold ourselves down

to take a beating and rest.