The excavator scraped and made
a wide, shallow trench—
dirt waiting for a sidewalk—
pushed away leaf and feeler,
the split rail fence supporting the shrub.
But the machine could not pull up
the thick nest of snaky naked vines.
Beware the roots, the dreaming
under the concrete, plotting to defeat
the pine, the maple, the oak,
beware the clutching tendril, Maytime’s
sweet purple tongues.