New Trees

new trees,
a week ago white rectangles on concrete.
now they breathe, maples, trunks three-inch-caliper,
born budding, miraculous in a single morning.
after the song of jackhammers, in the Spring of the seventh year,
out my windows, out my doors: new trees!

taller than me, yet younger.
when I pass they look and whisper:
“we may be week-old, but we’ll outlive thee.”