Hackberries
The trees are our neighbors
-Meg Wade
Gentrification
comes, finally,
even for the trees
in our neighborhood.
Our old neighbors
were trash
trees—diseased,
they said.
Coughed mold,
shook soot.
Turned everything
black. Invasive.
Take over
in urban areas
like this.
Die young.
Cut down now,
ground out.
Replaced
with trendy
sticks. The new
neighbors have
no roots.
Give
no protection
from the sun,
no berries
for the birds,
no arms
to hold
or swing
our children.
They give
nothing
but cleaner cars
and stronger fences.
A couple of knotted
old grandmothers
linger at the end
of the street,
broken,
sclerotic.
We know
their names.
They babysat us
in the summers.
Gave us
our first tools
and weapons--
katana and staff
for all color
of ninja turtle.
These boiled branches
held us. Hold us.
Bear witness
to the blight.