this morning’s sun, still pentecostal
waters new leaves in broad crowned elms
adorned, crowns within crowns
with magpie nests, wind-riding
as my spring-daft hounds cavort
i see again the crowd that day
our city, post-millennial, had
hired an american urban expert
to tell us what to need, now
that we’d turned that corner into
accepting, this is our way, the city.
i watched from behind
as the crowd, enchanted, drew near
to his talk of garden and path
and the rebirth of the walkable streetscape
there was a mutter of hallelujah rising
under the rustling papers, and then
he looked around, declaring:
there are too many trees here.
swifter than peter, the crowd drew back
on a breath; as if they believed those elms
might rear their mighty heads, up arms
sweep him away. as if they wished it.
this morning’s sun grows softer
by the moment, as new leaves
open laudatory throats; gloria.