Against the full August moon he stands strong and proud. With decades of roots below the surface of the neighbourhood built about him, below its concrete walks, wrapped around rusted city pipes, he has grown tall and green and glorious. He provides her shade during the summer scorchers; in the winter, he provides her beauty, unsullied snow etching the outline of limbs that reach out in every direction.
He has reason to feel proud and deem himself respected. She has reason to enjoy his company through the fifty seasons she has resided the brownstone shielded by the majestic Dutch elm. And neither of them can quite wrap their minds around the two horizontal (neon pink, moreover!) lines that now desecrate his uniquely gnarled trunk.
The old elm tree has witnessed many lives and heard many stories in the ninety- nine years he has stood guard over her brownstone. Oh, if only he could talk ...
She, enjoys the character of her ninety-nine year old building, but she can’t imagine who named it, and why this who named it “Brussel Sprouts”. Rather (and it amounts to the same thing, doesn't it?), this is its English translation from the Swiss.