City trees with Christmas lights
And carved initial trunks
Are trimmed to fit in grates and streets
And frame sky thoroughfares …
Still they are as wild as country horses
The way they insinuate in the breeze,
The way their leaves take umbrage,
And how they lean into the scene
With a knowing nonchalance,
Bristling resistance
To the noise of roving question marks
Circling round some secret need
As the sun in dapples answers
And the thinking wind delivers
What can never be endured
As a breath, for their reply.
