Perhaps it’s like the Sphinx’s riddle.
Some of us when born
arrive with four leaves. What do
we know about luck,
we who shiver in the rain like
children? We only
see you down on your knees
among us. Is it worship
or greed? We’re crushed. Some
of our weathered friends
live with two leaves, like umbrellas
in the sun. Merciless,
there’s never enough shade. But
our elders, the survivors,
sign the trinity, ancient wisdom
you never acknowledge.
You pass it by underfoot. We’re
tired of callous shoes.
We raise our green hands
in the prayer of all anchorites:
pass us by in peace.