What’s Buried and What’s Not
I’m balancing on the curvature
of roots mossed over in unreal green.
They carry a familiar bone structure:
these rough-skinned, working hands
That even now nourish tree flesh
in the bluing dark of Monday.
I trace one root, it skims grass-shallows
and delves below my sight
to extract its choice elixir:
It sips chilled rain from saturated earth,
leaving mineral tang on the forest’s breath.
Even what goes underground can sift,
can lift, can weave the elements–
into next spring’s leaf-fabric.
Poetry and photo by Bethany Rohde