Wet concrete is more poetic than it looks,
So is the fact that the branches of Weeping Willows,
bend but rarely break.
Imagine the delays that airplanes would face,
if they only flew through clear skies.
Running water doesn't have to sprint to us,
While others have to walk to where it sits.
Wasteful tendencies consume our nature,
Most were raised to claim earth for themselves.
Dry leaves of maroon and bronze,
Scattered like pennies at the bottom of a wishing well,
Cracked like Bronx pavement, in piles like Bronx garbage,
Hustle off the trees, rustle in the streets
Sense, makes less,
While fear takes more.
A book covered in dust is wise,
In a digital world that is updated daily.
Wet Concrete
