When the sapling died in the city

The thin green shoot was a promise—

tender fingers of hope pressed against old earth.

Now it’s brittle, brown like forgotten paper,

caught between hard slabs of grey cement,

shoved down beneath the crackle and hum of city noise.

I saw the fresh wet cement still warm,

sealed over what should have breathed and grown.

Nothing can root in this prison,

just quiet death where there was once breath.