It's this time of the day again.
Glass windows are lit
fiery gold, brilliant buttercup —
for even the tallest buildings
cannot suppress the sun's splendour
as she commences her dramatic exit.
Trees throw their lanky shadows,
the alternative selves
they may one day become.
Trees will grow:
tall and taller, tall and sturdier;
stretching towards towering buildings,
looking up to lofty skyscrapers.
Buildings will remain as they are
until they are reduced back
to the dust they arose from.
Skyscrapers will never create
dapples against the dull concrete,
they will never waltz with the wind.
They will forever worry
maintenance teams, cleaners,
architects, and insurance companies.
A tree is just a tree;
I exist
as I am.
You know where to find me.
