was
contented to rest by the root
in
the greenwood of our neighborhood.
Sometimes
he was passionate and shook the climbers out
who
once braved the height if just to spit on
those
who spent their time sitting.
Us
sitters were “spoiled in the soil” but the spitters
were
hanging on the scorn of being shaken—
for
none could live without a kid to prod a stem
or another one to wash it.
In
time some grounded grew out squatting
and
came home when this play time lost its fun,
but
those climbers higher up couldn’t grow up
until
they came back down.
--Poems from the Sprawl
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