Standing single file,
like druid prisoners of war,
the suburban trees line the streets.
Quietly rebelling in their allotted plots
roots buckle cement
and limbs stretch out across the roadway
to tangle themselves inextricably together.
These are my comfort,
these ancient survivors
clawing toward the sun
and cradling the moon in their branches at night.
Like me, they pass for ordinary here on Sycamore Street
but for those willing listen
they share their secrets
in whispers hung with moss.