A gentle wind now lifts the leaves
That nestle in the buildings’ eaves
There are no children in the street
I hear no sound of running feet.
The parks are carpeted in grass
Manmade of plastic rolls en masse
The rain has melted all the snow
The runoff has no place to go.
What kind of world is this we see
Man’s vision of pretend-to-be ?
Claire V. Bogdanos 