The Wild - a poem

In the empty lot - a place

not natural, but wild - among

the trash of human absence,

the slough and shamble

of the city's seasons, a few

old locusts bloom.

A few wood birds

fly and sing

in the new foliage

--warblers and tanagers, birds

wild as leaves; in a million

each one would be rare,

new to the eyes. A man

couldn't make a habit

of such color,

such flight and singing.

But they're the habit of this

wasted place. In them

the ground is wise. They are

its remembrance of what is. -Wendell Berry