The green bleeds from beneath concrete,

it cracks and crinkles and it eats

away the pavement of the street—

full now with weeds.

Soft sprouts upshoot, then harden thorns;

in light of morn,

they thicken till a tangle's born.

Forlorn, this corner grows and blooms

and seeds and dies and grows anew

through many moons.

And when the first explorers come

reclaim, at last, their former home,

they'll find nothing but concrete crumbs

and unsown fruit.