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.