handfuls of acorns, all of your memories, footprints

come to all of us in precious timing between

one pair out of ten green moss toes, if you had to choose

would you be buried in soil or a riverbed?

I’d choose the soil but you knew that already. A brutal person like me

prefers roots between her fingers to know there is growth to come.

or did you mistake me for another root-growing thing?

there is only so much time each of us can spare

sparrow-people like us deal mainly in time-wasting, and

waiting on branches for our time to soar.

though perhaps I’ve said too much. Love after all is

plentiful if you look around for those who care

for loving, who when it rains sing,

In the muck, to be here is enough.