I
Among ten thousand clogs of soil
the only moving thing
was the hair of the root
II
I was of three cultures
like a plant
which grips the soil with three deep roots
III
The tap root branched Marking the beginning of possibility
IV
A woman and a child
are one
A woman, a child, and their root
are one
V
I don't know which I prefer
the song of life
or the whisper of creation
the root sprout breaking the surface
or just before
VI
Frost blankets the roof of dirt
held up by air and frozen water
the root strains against
hardened soil,
a winding path, mapped by cracks,
and invisible highway
VII
O pale men of green valley
how can you worship the greening
leaves, the beautiful body,
when you ignore the roots which
feed its beauty
you crush its breath with every step
VIII
I know the inflections
of this insatiable tongue
I know the shadows carried
by every word
But I know, too, that every sound
echoes and vibrates, beneath the dirt
from the center of my deepest root
IX
When the roots spread down
and wide
radiating as far from the central root,
to just before they would break;
they mark the boundary of assimilation
X
At the sight of exposed roots
against rich clay
even the most experienced harvester
would be frozen by the silent,
primal scream
XI
He slept in a bed, warmed by feathers
plucked from living birds;
He dreamt in the darkness
of roots, breaking
the surface and pulling
him under
XII
The sun is rising
the roots must be waking
XIII
There is a winter that oppresses
the spring
there is a darkness that oppresses
the light
under the weight
of this cool dampness
the roots lie invisible
waiting
©CopyrightAarin Gross