The Urban Rebirth

The concrete exhales its winter frost, A slow, humid breath through the sewer grates. The sky is a bruised pearl, Waiting for the first green spear to pierce the clay.

Between the jagged teeth of the high-rise, The sun spills a pale, buttery light, Waking the sleeping soot on the windowsills, Tracing the iron skeletons of fire escapes.

A single sparrow sings of a warmer shore, Its voice a bright thread in the traffic hum. The asphalt yields to the insistent root, And the city remembers its name.