Sidewalk

May 3 2020

The sidewalk was always broken there,

the rough edge

of a concrete slab

tilted like a trip-wire.

And the gnarled root

that lies at its centre,

like a thick-bodied snake

basking in the summer sun.

That had pushed its way up

with the slow inexorable strength

urban trees possess.

That are so often neglected,

yet persist, and even thrive.

Which exist

in a whole different order of time.

So no one sees

the slab lifting

the moment of cracking

the fragment angling up.

Or even remembers

there was ever a before.

The concrete has weathered badly,

turning dull grey, with faded streaks of black.

The fractured edge

that was never meant

to be wet, thawed, refrozen.

And where the softer cement has worn away

crushed stone protrudes

from its roughly pitted surface.

You now have to strain to see,

but somewhere along its length

the date it was poured is inscribed,

like a mark of pride

by the men who made it.

Back when the concrete was smooth and white.

When the houses were new

the sod freshly laid.

And when a small sapling

was planted by a young man

who has long since passed away.

But left a tree behind

that is sure to outlive us all.

Who have learned to watch our step.

Who take pleasure

kicking through its deep blanket of leaves

in cool crisp Octobers.

And who pause, on hot summer days

to take in its shade

or lean against its trunk.