(In Memory of Marianne Moore)
Something waiting to be born,
The oak tree folded in the acorn,
We might say, the felicity
Of potential: an embarrassment of riches
Takes a chance at life in ditches,
A miracle that’s hard to beat.
Squirrels never grow to what they eat
And acorns never penetrate concrete
On which I’ve heard them bounce on windy nights,
Landing loud as bottle caps
After the shortest and straightest of flights –
Without even the hint of a somersault.
Where you land is sometimes the wind’s fault.