It was this park bench
(hardened with as many
coats of plush enamel
as there are rainy days
in a decade)
that sent me back
to that fluorescent avenue
of ornamental trees
with its whiteout
of ceremonial blossom
quivering in the breeze.
But this is now,
and that stock-still tree
(the one just over there)
is watching me
from the gnarls and whorls
of its layered bark
with as many eyes
as a pack of wolves,
and see how its roots
have been set out
around its burly trunk
like waiting paws.
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