All at Once

Trees have whole streets of when they were planted plaqued with when the city is to inherit them dead of age almost all at once as if a natural bombing. People see a bill not figured in, a blood red collection come like fall’s leaf due without fail an unseen cost of the design: pale bud and yellow blossom— though seeming little to do this time with tense spring in the window of dead and dying trees’ terms up, with expecting a life by life replacement— not this plague of life’s time as a season across the city. By trial we do, but don’t know how death counts the rings from trees to clocks, species to singled soul at its hour. or on history’s days we all die at once.