- May 14th.
A poem I am creating demanded I know more about roots. As a gardener roots have always been adored. Tracing rhizomes, noting each node and every fibrous feeder is what I do. My poetry gropes the dark too, mining it for nutrients and sustenance that I draw up.
The bleached pebble plunged under the soil by an errant foot fall will find me quietly waiting. I wait here for shriveled petals and tears to be drawn too. How does one describe the feel of enclosing around a smooth pebble or wriggling a toe down in burlap sheets to find the cool spots.
I love taps best
moisture drawn from the deep
the trumpet sound