We Are The Spruces Poem by Francie Lynch

Walking my haunts enlightens me.
Your Centennial Spruce grew strong for fifty years.
Your home is no longer the dark chocolate I layered.
The owners are unknown to me.
Neither change nor inactivity
Is necessarily progressive.
I mean, I like the new colour,
And Magnolias have vibrant blossoms.
Yes, modulations and mutations are as inevitable
As clock hands gliding silently through time.

Our grandparents don't have interesting dens where they now live.
Modern galleries befuddle me.
Roads get shaved and paved in one passing.
Houses come Pre-fab.
We are the Spruce trees,
And the exterior walls,
Waiting
For a box luncheon.