Out walking last week with my wife,
We saw flatbed trucks and many men
Handling huge trees in front of the neighbor’s
Down the street—one assumed they were
Planting new trees.
This week, walking with my son
In his little green wagon, we saw
That the neighbor is gone—sold
Or foreclosed, moved up
Or scaled down.
The yard is bare, stripped of grass,
only dust and humas ashes remain.
Where mature olive trees
And stately palms were,
Only gaping maws remain.
Oh, how many of us wish
We could also relocate
The beloved landscape?
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