Analysis of "concrete landscapes" a poem in free verse

On the sidewalk,
next to the vacant lot,
just past the black iron ornaments that sit in small yards of cattle bars.
I glance in the undisturbed forgotten,
looking down upon shiny patches of winter grass as I approach the landscape.
I become consumed with the greenery,
subtle waves of cars passing.
I look in the blasting white,
as of grapes that soothe the palette of awakening.
The sun is unforgiving to the loss of life.
In that moment of rapture I kick the small delicate leaves,
in the now endless lush uninhibited wintry grass.
A landscape unbelievable to the naked eye,
all the leaves were dead,
toasted like garlic blanched,
with virgin olive oil.
I looked at the trees to see if a leaf would fall.
Nonesuch, as they were green alive in the breeze.
The landscape turned to desert.
I came upon a dead tree.
The bark peeling the abyss,
of the branches from her kiss.
Had I enjoyed all the leaves from the dead tree?
Nonetheless, of hopes to wish of other loves that can't seem to break through the wall that I have stacked to the sky upon the sun?
I requite in solemn memories that are now placed on my empty lips.
The corner approached,
pines of the desert absorb the life of the unforgiving sun that had killed the innocent love,
across the street I walk to return to a meadow of dead summer grass,
still in the memory of her.