I hope you might understand,
I miss my trees,
a backyard that aged with me,
would shelter a storm with a view
spectacular in the spring.
I put work into that little forest,
my backyard, a shaded garden
that will be tended with unknown hands
a couple of bird feeders left,
I’ll never know where they will land.
I live in sheltered concrete now,
the sun rather than trees west,
sets upon a roof in near sight,
appears through the rafters
I miss my trees in a natural breeze,
today I will weep with pitiful ease.
© Scott F Savage 5/2020
the ‘b’ series