if the pines were casuarinas

magic the appearance of green the rich lushness bespeaking
the not-so-distant tropics the sound of birds reminding
that life goes on and its cycle should bring us to rejoicing

the continuance of existence the affirmation of being
in rays of sunlight coming through the clouds shining
on trees and flowerpots and on the bushes guarding

the way to our porch the false seclusion giving
this sunday afternoon the illusion of having
a rustic air a harmonious mode of living

that the trains passing by the rails groaning
as the cars pass over one after the other bearing
people and goods and every other kind of thing

but it is sunday and magic and the moment striving
not to be eternal but in its passage almost singing
that life is good but all good things are dying