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,
even the stalwart.

©Vera S. Scott