An Orphaned Patch - July 10 2024

 

An Orphaned Patch

July 10 2024

A small wedge of green.

Walled off

by an on-ramp,

an overpass,

a controlled access lane.

An orphaned patch

the civil engineers

omitted from their plans;

was somehow left unpaved

unimproved.

And at a hundred k

who would even notice?

So it sits, littered with junk,

lost hubcaps

fast food wrappers

empty cups,

chucked out passing windows

and dropped by fitful winds.

Spindly city trees

grow haphazardly,

while overgrown weeds

compete for space;

dandelions, and bittersweet

and that prickly leafy stuff

that loves open ground

and grows no matter what.

But despite its disorder,

unobstructed sun

has left it green and lush.

Not to mention teeming

with butterflies

buzzing bugs

spiders standing guard;

8 delicate legs,

poised stock-still

on gossamer strands of silk,

exquisitely tuned

to every slight vibration.

There are even small mammals

living out their lives

in this small contained world,

scurrying through the underbrush

burrowing into the soil.

A blight

of urban decay

and bureaucratic neglect

a man of any sense

would shun.

Would domesticate the wild,

bombarding it with herbicide

taming it with grass;

a green beachhead

of civilization,

kept at regulation length

free of feral weeds.

Or, if you care to see it that way

a garden of delight

in its perfectly natural state.