(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.