I sit beneath a lounging willow, the dazed sun
teasing coy from an Earl Grey sky, lighting shadows
through leaves, dripping like a lace veil,
painting the damp ground in solace, in peace,
holding my hand steady in its stems.

It was not long here before I saw how
the trees hold themselves differently, prouder,
pushing their chests to a besieged sky,
allowing the wind to grace their leaves,
the river to run in their shade.

The city has taken their cue, an act
of stretching spires reaching fingertips,
gargoyles haunting the streets in faux malice.
All stoic, all prideful, all aware of the town’s sanctity;
its swirling pool of aspiration,
rolling over the rooftops like a spring shower.

A girl runs through the shelter, feeling the leaves
kiss her pink cheeks, her stumbling legs.
Her mother watches on from a bench,
drinking in the moment’s sun,
holding her chin to the sky