Within, yet without the city,
For as far as anyone could see,
An easy sprawl of serenity,
Where none was busy as a bee.
Home to so many a tree:
Short and tall, callow and wise,
Having had some jubilee,
Donning some greenish guise.
So protected by so many,
The full rank and file on duty,
Who might in command be,
The one who is the most rooty?
They hold so many leaves:
Slender, broad, curiously aligned;
Round them the light weaves,
And a shadowy filigree is designed.
Could the leaves be set,
Into a mosaic for an invisible eye?
Or, is each leaf an amulet,
That some unknown star did tie?
Could the lines on a leaf,
Hold clues to someone's fate?
Or, could they be, in brief,
Some tenets beyond debate?
Could each leaf be a page,
From the wandering wind's diary?
Or, echoes from every age,
That embarked on new inquiry?
Could each leaf be a parasol,
Shading squirrels nibbling away?
Or, an awning of some stall,
In a flea market with a micro display?
Or, could the leaves be votes,
In some pageant for migrant birds?
Maybe they're speculative notes,
About us, the weird, wondrous herds.
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