I. The Agency of Earthworms

I save some
from the drying streets
when they are sandy, still,
but wriggle to a gentle touch.
It’s not much to lift
and toss them into the grass verge.

This dew worm
now alarmed
struggles in my hand
but I am not a bird.

Agent of natural selection
I rearrange their plans,
their urge to cross the road.
They misunderstand, and fear me.
But I am not a toad.

II. The Agency of Oaks

Acorns look inert but are alive.
Inside the hard hull the tree still thrives

unless crushed, smushed, chewed, rolled away
where rain and daylight cannot free the shoot.

Persuasive gravity tugs at the would-be root.

I love free stuff –
the old oak knows me well –
so squelch the urge to pocket these.
It’s not much to lift
and toss them into the grass verge
hoping for trees.