The cherry trees lining our street must go. Dormant, they hold their breath and wait in the wings. Their swan song they won’t perform. They are my age, plying midlife. Come from a distant land, they sailed the high seas, and, like me, struck root here. But the city is bursting with people, so trees must make way for cars, cyclists, pedestrians. Still, some of us hold placards, file petitions, caress their gnarls, their scars.

There are supposedly more trees on earth than there are stars in the Milky Way. But now I hear our galaxy is starting to spill over.

speckled band
of the milky way—
searching for spring blossoms

Bio: Sayantani Roy