When it Rains in Philadelphia

When it rains in Philadelphia, and I whither what to do?
I ponder this place’s history—all the years hitherto.
But before the City of Brotherly Love that I sit in today,
There was the village of Shackamaxon, of the Lenape.

Some glorify Penn’s treaty back in 1683,
When Whitey and the Originals gathered under an elm tree.
It may have held some weight back when but only for a smidgen,
Now the Wharton Mordor Tower’s clouding up my vision.

Gardens have been important here, yes it’s civilization:
From slash-n-burn and the Three Sisters of the Lenape Nation,
On down the years to Bartram’s on the Schuylkill over yon,
I carry on tradition in North Philly on a vacant lawn.

Oh what the gardeners of centuries past used to think,
On rainy days as they relaxed and knew their plants would drink?
Did they ponder our existence and the essence of the plants?
Or strike up a fire to keep warm and go on romantic rants?