The tree nobody I know can name
grows from cement atop the top
of all subway platforms.
It won't stop growing from crumbled concrete.
The one nobody I know can name
has many names, but it's not the "tree of God";
I've found it in poems by many friends
though none of my friends are poets.
My closest friends are a ghost and a cloud.
Every tree I'm talking about is a painting
written by a poet,
just as all poems are trees written by painters.
For do we call the recently noticed tall one
out on the fire escape?
Before I looked out of the window
it was in nine poems, half a film treatment and
at least four of my last seven meals.
Sacrificing the possible beauty of its name,
What can they say about that?
The tree nobody I know can name
doesn't need encouragement,
but I encourage (if by nothing else)
by not discouraging it.
The one year head ache you didn't know you had,
till you didn't have it.
The concrete continues to grow.