Concrete's Split

An old oak, its trunk like weathered stone,

had pushed a vein, dark and strong, alone

through the cracked gray sidewalk.

A slow, persistent muscle.

It didn't ask permission, just grew.

A gnarled hump, a stubborn truth

breaking the neat lines, lifting the slab

like a lid on something deep.

And walking past, I felt the slight unevenness,

the defiance of that rooted strength,

a memory held fast beneath the paved length

of what we call order.

Always something ancient, finding its way up.