... (XVIII)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3hyBHO2xZ7c&ab_channel=Balmorhea-Topic

.

.

.

The cedar tree

In the neighbor's front yard -

The bent one,

With hack-saw marks 

And chain-linked scars - 

Catches a glimmer

From out and under

The illuminated cone 

Permeating from the amber-yellow

Of an adjacent street lamp...

.

And frost, 

Frost gathers in a conjoined likeness

About the tendrils of their roots,

About the dull-ache

of Harewood's city-pavement,

About the dormant, and flaxen grass

Clinging to the sparse patches

That speckle the neighbor's lawn.

.

We live under the mountain here,

Under the mountain, and just within reach

Of the nearby city centers

Or the neighboring university.

.

Everyone is poor, here;

We all wear hand-me downs;

We all walk with heavy boots,

Faded sweaters layered beneath 

Peeling flannel jackets, and shredded jeans;

.

We all shop at the value-grocer;

We all enter there,

By delving under the neon-fluorescents

Of a high-hanging bingo-sign;

.

We all have children, 

Draped in clothes 

That look just like ours,

That shine in the way that old clothes do

When they're shrouded about the shoulders

Of the holy-ordained, and dignified poor,

.

Of the slow, temperate footsteps 

That liken themselves to grandeur.

.

It's soon to be winter here,

And winter here is not the same

As it might be, for winter elsewhere.

.

And the cheap-pink rubber boots

Worn under the tangled hair 

Of toddling daughters, born

Under the mountain, 

.

Ring out

.

As they splash in frozen mud puddles

And laughingly, traipse their feet about.

.

.

.