So Rooted


If, all day, one could sit
in this dirt, so rooted,
in this moist temperate earth,

unchanging in the trunk,
with just leaves, like fingers,
that could pitch and angle

to the light, with just arms
that crack and sometimes die,
there would be no measure

for time. What one could know
would be narrow, no taste
for ethnic food, travel,

dating outside your race,
not leaving for college.

One would barely taste love.

What was known would be well,
an old farmer, Edsel
rusting in a field,

the water of the pond;
knowing what hue the light
shadows at your feet, then

marching overhead, then
with sureness like science,
admiring, as it dies.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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