As most things that dream a dream
In a mess of trees and cool soft breeze, swept
The branched fingers that kept
Scratching windows and stretching for sky.
Reaching further, high
For purpose and paradise.
Uprooting from the stretch,
Concrete cracked under the pressure’s pinch.
Weeping softly, the willow
For it had given up the dream.
And the dying went unnoticed,
As most things that dream a dream.