A Tree in the City

Smoke break on the balcony,
I sit in a white plastic lawn chair
and wait for a certain neighbor
to come home and talk to me.

Whereabouts unknown,
I stare off into the distance,
trying to entertain myself,
to find a source of inspiration,
or perhaps let it find me.

A tree, just a parking lots distance away,
with new Spring leaves beginning to green,
or at least what I have always known to be green.
But if a man were to walk up to that tree,
or any tree,
and claim that the new Spring leaves
were blue, or purple,
or no color, or all colors,
would he be wrong? Would the world be wrong?
Could they both be right at the same time?
I do not know, or care to know,
it's just a thought.
Whatever color they may be,
it's all the same to me:
filled with motherly affection,
soothing and inspiring.

I kill my cigarette in a maroon ashtray,
or what I have always known to be maroon,
but I do not go inside,
a certain neighbor is not yet home,
and I have another observation to make
about the tree, I,
for some reason, am still staring at.

There is not one ounce of blood
in that tree, or any tree,
no organ beneath its bark
to pump the crimson liquid
from its deepest root to its highest limb,
yet it is growing strong
as we dive deep into the months of Spring,
which I assume is that tree's,
and all tree's favorite season.
As a creature of life,
it must pulsate with the beat of life,
and I almost wonder,
if I could stop all the sounds in the world,
and lean in close, just for a moment,
could I hear the beat of life within that tree?

I am certain of its life as I observe
its new Spring leaves dance in the wind,
its limbs reach for the sky for energy,
and its roots dig deeper for nourishment.

I almost wonder
how its respiratory system
could be so different from my own,
and be a living creature all the same.
What life force flows through its veins
to keep it standing so still and silent
for more years than my bleeding body
will ever know?

I almost wonder, I almost ask,
but I do not,
because that isn't how an artist thinks or feels.
Not because of insignicance,
like wondering if green is really green
but too much significance,
like questioning the existence or non exeistence
of a God that I can never
see, or touch, or love.
I appreciate and find beuty in what is,
never questioning why it is.