Sean J. Mahoney

Nothing said by you or me or the walking man
can alter the station of a tree camped between
Hi-Ball verbosity, Hill Street, concrete,
and the Grand Central Market
in downtown Los Angeles; between
the frenetic high-tech sectors moving in
and the enigma of Ecclesiastes
radiating in all directions.
Evergreens are not a measure of vanity.

Under your roots and into your souls,
42,803 miles of power and communication
cables cure the streets so
that we can forget to back-up.

A tree reaches upward, focused -
it has no choice but to remain optimistic.
Though much can be done to alter its
physical postage
it will not recognize limits:

a root system will not protest
labor practices;
a trunk will not succumb to the fluctuating
derivatives of an index;
branches, though they go their separate ways,
transcend the global
markets.

And leaves, the canopy of solidarity, gladly suffer
the strains of the sun, all manner
of enmity, and the pleasure of the sky
pushing through, down,
adamantly seeking common denominators.