Pudgy Indian

lRemember my poem, "Prison Yard"? Well, the trees are still there. One, the smaller one, now, someone cut down, but it is still there, and still growing.

Prison Yard
Brick and Grafitti walls.
Cyclone fences
complete with barbed wire
necklaces.
Concrete yard
hole in the ground.
Brother and sister
find sanctuary in the circle.
Empress trees growing
where they are not supposed to.
My journey leads me by you
most everyday.
Ad there you are
like the rain.
You fill my soul with hope
as you hide in your little
prison yard.