The great rush of ivy
Up the side of a sycamore—
How far does it know to go?

Red leaves, puddled before
A stoppered storm drain,
Barely moving in crystal water.

The most fertile soil lies
Between the highway and the field,
Where the farmer can’t till.

Have I spent a thousand lifetimes
Learning to see the grass?
I suspect more, and more to come.

The teacher recalled the apparition,
Describing death as taking off
A shoe that’s too tight.

Will I get to see the ivy again?
I hope so. It’s lovely, to know
That it knows what we don’t.