I Feel For Trees

I kind of feel sorry for the trees in the front yard.
They live their whole life in that one spot with firm roots planted in their own little reality.
They know no other sky, no other air but what is above and surrounds them.
My mother planted them thirteen years ago, and now they tower far above the house.
They have seen no other view than the pale yellow sidings and the concrete steps.
Wait,
The house does have a new roof.
They won't ever feel the salty air of Cape Cod or slurp the extra carbon dioxide in Hong Kong.
A New York City hound won't ever urinate on their trunks and they won't ever experience a London rain.
San Francisco fog eludes them as aggressively as the Philippines' typhoons.
I kind of feel sorry for the trees in the front yard, they're just there.

I am envious of the trees in their front yard.
They live their whole life in that one spot with firm roots planted in their own little reality.
My mother planted them thirteen years ago on our front lawn, and they have proudly sprouted over what is now their house.
I remember when she planted them. I could snap their trunks in half.
We moved a year after that.
Then again.
Then again.
Then again.
Then again.
Then I moved again.
I saw those trees the other day, taking a detour from the ten-hour trip down the East Coast.
They cast cool shade on a lawn that isn't mine anymore.
Their leaves fall on grass that yearns for the indolent weight of a reader.
Their trunks long to support the back of a child that lives vicariously through pages in books.
What is it like to stay?
I am envious of the trees in their front yard, they're just there.