That spring I saw you across
the plaza as beautiful as ever
in its tessellated rectangles of brick
and angled intaglio of walkways
that keep asunder trees asleep with passion
in the earth after barren winter.
Buds sprout on spindly branches,
promises of blooms, perhaps,
that by the nature of trees
feel deep imperatives to flower
forth and grow.
But this is the pattern of plazas:
they denude the land of living things,
then clothe themselves in ordered grids of cement,
and last come rational plantings of trees.
But even topiaries, given time enough,
could, I sometimes want to think,
grow as trees and blooms are meant to grow.
I saw you across the plaza
as beautiful as ever
and feel a pain.