While Walking the Dog

Since I was last here, trees, vines,
and shrubbery have all vanished.
Chopped down, that is to say, murdered,
because of some personal inconvenience or a false sense of husbandry.

I miss the wildness, the shade, the random chance
that feral life would peek through green, shimmering leaves
trying to determine if I am good urban,
or the dangerous kind.
I hope never that — no, strive, I strive
to be more considerate, kinder, responsible
than my younger, greed-filled, entitled self.

God is not alone in judging my sins and regrets. Still,

this devastation, this massacre
of one city garden hidden behind one walled city block,
fractures
even the stalwart.



©Vera S. Scott

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