The Root

The root,
leg grown
for depth and protection
against standing
so loosely on the surface
that one could easily fall
in any stiffer wind;

who has these now?
Whose roots are not 
shrinking, pulling free
of the earth?

Soil cracking, air
hardening. One good storm
away from toppling
for most of us.

Way of the world,
some say. Nature
is a cull, a cull is
a cleansing, a cleansing
makes new.

Holes left behind
preach a different sermon:

the drying out,
the crying out,
the soil holding
nothing

even as we dig in our toes;
a vain scramble
for purchase
we call

putting down roots.

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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