There’s a Birch Tree. . .
There’s a birch tree—a birch tree
on the Brooklyn Bridge.
A sign that we might survive.
Let it live, let it thrive, the birch tree
on the Brooklyn Bridge.
Trapped life seeking a mouth of steel
seed that accepted the way things are,
but then never compromised the way things should be.
The seed that’s now a tree—
Where do your roots go?
How do they drink?
Branches held so high,
their green, reflect the silver of
the garters down below.
High above the rise of skyscrapers,
blowing in the wind.
It’s a birch tree—a birch tree on the Brooklyn Bridge.
Branches grow and mend the hole up in the sky…
Maybe it can work.
Steel-wood will build an empire.
Or were you just a quirk, standing in the sun,
born of acid rain and the dirt from the trains,
passing steam up to the sky?
But there’s a birch tree—
a birch tree–
on the Brooklyn Bridge.