You were a seed that grew from nothing out of the ground. We tried planting you in the soil, but felt the ground quiver as the dust was not enough to contain you. We set you on the highway. When we pass by, we can see you in the middle of the interstate. They rebuilt it around your oak. Like an obligatory gesture. Like a memoir to some feeling we were trying to portray, with no story or significance whatsoever. It's just devouring the city.
We've started carving homes into your roots and coffee shops into your trunk. That same trunk where we carved our names into your bark as children. As elders, we reminisce. When you were young, your leaves glimmered in the rain, perfected in the streetlights.
Where has your color gone?
Yet even now, in your death, there is a glamour to your definition. Owls still peer at us from your limbs, their wide eyes lighting up nocturnal night. But the days run into one another as your density shields us from the sun.
A shining star gave way to your development, and how perfectly we relate to the rain, as we fall, as it does, from heaven. But we can't see through the windshield anymore. We're all falling too hard. We planted your seed in the air, wrapped you in a blanket and shot you from a cannon, and we simply figured that you had disappeared. A bit of jungle protrudes from the concrete, and we're becoming confused as to whether we're the people or we're the birds.
We planted you as our commonwealth, and we returned slaves to your shade.
Paint us porcelain, we want to shine like you. Break the vase, we can't fit the mold.
You were a seed that grew from a crack in the freeway, so stretched out your arms as out stretched our youth, and my! you grew up so strong and mighty. Paint us porcelain; we're done with this dank stench. There has got to be something that will shine bright from these tree limbs.
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