take from them what you can –
there are wiser things than those
that carry discernible voices –
down the street near the park,
five cherries are marked with orange
distorted by time and poor nourishment
(it’s no surprise they’ve failed to thrive)
and within this Spring’s feeble pink,
parting unfurled and scattered
come July, the city and their saws
will pare them down to stumps
before then, the crows and I
will grace them with a last goodbye
not with pious pity,
but with a graceful thanks
for their green rendering
of unknowable sky
© Sarah Whiteley
ebbtide 