Transplants

Way back east where the green things grow
Trees show up naturally, like cities with squares
Attract walkers, like families with religion
Attract children. The trees there lean elbows
On walls near each other and have intelligent
Conversations, nonchalantly dropping seeds
To make more trees. They congregate
In festive flocks, weave roots through
Cobblestones, rub foreheads with the sky.

Here, in a park in Scottsdale, Arizona,
Stands a small and shy colony of transplanted trees.
They crane their necks at the scrub-covered
Mountains nearby, as if to say,
They belong here. Do we?
The palms swagger like tourists,
The pines shuffle like strangers.
They are not sure how or why they got here.
Like children in a national park,
Their skin turns color in the sun.

Up in the crags, the monk-short
Palao verdes sprawl and lounge
Like siblings in the living room.
The saguaros keep watch,
Century-old soldiers.

But here in the valley I sit
On a too-clean bench,
Missing my old New York
Filth and stench, wondering
At the sparseness of pedestrians,
Asking the age-old questions:
Is this real? And is this how all pilgrims feel?

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