Across the street from the house you liked
Dying Palms of the almost south,
Wilting with wishes of something warmer.
Fronds are fading skeletons of brittle nature,
Which lets itself be known with its ability to bring life or death.
I pass them daily and admire their ability to hold on.
Like a home, shedding paint and smelling musty.
Things that make a native Virginian comfortable.
The appearance of palms on these confused streets brings out its hospitality.
Leaves fall down when the weight of rain overburdens their loose hold, fluttering down,
Tiny sheets of chlorophyll spinning around and finding a new destination.
A painful pinwheel palm on the not quite beach,
Resting where the river starts to become affected by the tides.
A coastal community, or land locked?
I walked this street with you so many times.
Hand in hand, or not talking, I just always liked knowing I had the option of holding you.
In every season and every color I got to see you.
Yellow, Orange, blue, and pink,
The Palms were envious of us moving freely and adapting to climates,
We were envious of the palms, a symbol of paradise,
One that couldn’t quite survive.
Are we dying, or are we almost?