The city has been my shelter as long as I’ve been alive. I was raised in suburbia and spent years studying and working in downtown Dallas and London.
I wrote this little thing as I grasped what nature I could find in the city that day.
The city, its nature of exhaust and concrete, I lament.
The tresses of autumn cut, what’s the consolation?
Indeed, the head of the forest has been shaved to cement.
The only saving grace is my imagination.
On my stroll one day past the trees of high-rises,
I caught a glimpse of a tree, lone and genuine.
How stark it struck me towering, a pillar of brilliance;
I paused for its beauty amidst the downtown din.
Of a flower in blossom, this tree reminded me,
Stemming green from its trunk, it rounded to a flower’s image.
The outer edge of leaves donned a blooming shade,
As if the tree was budding a halo of crimson orange.
A second glance revealed its leaves a firecracker,
As two colors appearing, then bursting in the sky.
Shining emerald in the center, framed by an outer ring
Of reddish gold that illuminated my eye.
Times turn as do leaves, now my tree a kaleidoscope.
Each visit, I beheld a new set of colors turned.
Reminded I was of creation’s resplendence and hope
As shades of rust, ruby, sage, and apricot burned.
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