I wait beneath a noise of pain,
I tend my roots. Skyscraper lawn
up there is turf, it skins alloys,
napalm soft. Break in allies!
The green is grim. The place is mulch.
The hazards groan. Today I flinch.
I stand with blades of lignin lace,
I wash by shores of earthy lakes.
The seeds of yesteryear confess
upstream. Backyards of worldliness
grip crowns and leaves are limbs. They touch
my heart with chloroplasts. I blush.
Stephen Paul Wren
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