after Marianne Moore

drop

from treetops

         onto the harsh sidewalk in turn—

                     tens,

                     hundreds; idle, crushed ben-

         eath the feet of distrait passersby.

Pre-

mature seeds

     with little chance of survival

wait—

unwilling to tempt fate—

      in shallow control joints: man-made faults.

Those

that dispose

         of their studded beret find a

                     dearth

                     of existential earth,

         sidewalks unsuitable for searching 

roots

resolute

         against the pitfalls of cities:

                     coaxed,

                     convinced they’d become oaks

         by the vanity in their nature.