A busted open sidewalk
Split by the roots of a hemlock
In shock, adorned at my feet
I ponder the old seed
Once fruitful and free

Ivy on red doorway
Creeping along at it’s own pace
No waste, simply to be
Growing up purposefully
With no end in sight
Reaching for the light

And yet I am
In cement
No motion nor advent
The smog blankets cold steel
And I dream of a wheat field