They're not from this place The Eucalyptus trees spearing the sky Their naked trunks below near gleaming in the morning sun Massive branches and leaves darkly silhouetted against backlit morning fog
The trees reach wide and tall near the bay It's a negative tide and little wriggles of water sparkle in the sun The water moves four times a day Same with most of the people, the old joke goes Many of us too are not from here
The branches shelter a lone and rusting railroad car It's not from here either But year on year, the place claims the old iron Envelops it, hugs it to itself, draws it in
I speed past them now, the vast trees Smudges of muted bronze and pearl white and moss green Even in my hurry, I feel them exhale a weighty permanence Breathy on my neck With a scent of lemon and antiseptic
We know they're not from this place But might they at last be of this place?
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