They look the same—the trees—
One or two are dead—but that’s no matter.
Their leaves are gone, but may return
In six months—but also maybe never.
The gray seeps here and through
Spreading its warped Puritan brew
Which settles like mist to dope anew
Olive green and azure romantics
Still vying to escape the old Estates
Though Athens freed them centuries ago.
And if, and, yes, when in half a year,
Buds of lime hued fuzz appear,
All the leaves will ever get to do
Is add a bit of green to all the gray.
Published in The Wisconsin Review – Fall 2015
