A Sidewalk in Savannah

The bricks are old, perhaps as old as the city.
Rough. Worn. Carefully placed.
You have done such work and know
it is more difficult than it looks
to place them just so,
perfectly flat and at perfect angles,
the right amount of sand beneath
to assure now, two hundred years later,
they are still a walkway. Oh yes, it takes work.

But here, the perfection is marred.
Roots, deep and knarly, thick and insistent,
have found their way to the surface,
pushing aside the carefully patterned facade.
There is nothing to be done. Killing the roots
will kill the trees that predate the sidewalk.
Given the choice, the city fathers ruled in favor
of a ragged hole in the facade.
Let people who are not paying attention trip.
Roots will always rise.

About this poem

A poem about the sidewalk in Savannah that is in the photograph. A poem about the things deep inside us, the wounds and broken places that often haunt us, and affect us and those around us, throughout our lives. Roots always rise.

Be well. Travel wisely,

Tom