My poem for One Stop Poetry's One-Shot-Wednesday:
View from Her Deathbed
She didn't want to see
the buildings in the skyline. She wanted
the trees, their sap misting upon her
face, her hands. Not the view
from the rooftop patio outside
the penthouse, the one
from the porch where the ferns nest
and the fat cat naps.
She said buildings were machines
built to support illusions of progress where prayer
was banned. Windows so high
people looked like frantic ants below
marching along to market, to cell phone
stores, to car dealerships, without paying
attention to the trees. Their branches growing
upward, reaching toward an unpromised
haven, hope directing
each trusting branch's extension.
She wanted to feel their breeze.
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