Roots

They start so quietly
here,
slipping from the trunk,
descending into dirt
and mud.
There is barely a whisper
where the roots pull away
from each other,
where the roots pull
away from the trunk
and plunge
into the earth.
I wish I knew how deep
they went;
what they look like
down under
the soil;
what they do there.
But I must tear them up
to find that out. I must
give them over to death.
Some men would,
but I can not.

Until I die,
great hickory brother,
I will wish in the
shadow of your
whispered roots. I
will wish and imagine
and make stories of
your life underground.