Tuesday, August 5, 2014

under the old growth grove

The Roots

the roots speak to me
and draw my feet to lightly tread over them on a light trail
almost apologetic in its care to work with them,

above, great trees reach to the sky,
endure, and die when they must:
one great poplar against which I loved to take family photos,
now a bone-white skeletal column glistening in the sun,

in this grove humans are not the architect,

since the Ice retreated north,
roots, like these, have held the earth here,
and I love to feel for the purpose 
within such enduring will,

and I wonder at the web beneath us all,

how much it is plumbing
and how much it is more. 

by Henry H. Walker
July 29, ’14

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