On an island of mulch in
A concrete sea,
A tree waves
In the wind—gentle,
Like linen
Drying on a line, it is dressed
In white petals;
Branches peeking
Through the softness
It wears.
Surrounded by what is
Man-made
And empty, the tree does not
Know emptiness—
Even when its
Limbs are draped
in snow
Rather than
The pillowy flowers
It may love more.