Trees in the Road

We believe we have won, build
our sturdy houses and winding streets,
arrange them in rows and districts and
look fondly upon what is ours. But
the trees still hang over the road.
We lop off offending branches,
but they lean inward, dropping leaves and
carpeting the ground we have shaped. Wild
flowers throw their seeds to the cracks and
fissures, and more weeds grow, thrusting
roots deep into concrete, slowly tearing it apart.
As far as they’re concerned, it’s just another
to be broken into gravel and then dust.
For as long as they’ve known, the land
has been theirs to conquer. The ground is theirs,
the sky is theirs, the open space above the roads
and the dark soil beneath the asphalt.
It has always been theirs and they continue
as if nothing has changed.

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