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.

High Rocks

The earth is
held together
up here with
cedar roots,
with hickory roots
and the constant hope
of no rain.

The red-shale soil
loves to wash
itself,
down
to the ravine below
becoming silt for the Tohickon Creek -
the Deer-bone Creek.

The dirt is
made up here
with the slipping
and the sliding of rock;
on rock;
stone against stone
and rain on earth.

The pounding and the force
makes dirt of the stone.

Creeping along in
the fingers of the rain
the dirt is grabbed,
the dirt is pushed
along the roots that cling
tightly to life
and to the vertical growth.

The earth is
held together up here,
by cedar roots,
by hickory roots,
and the constant hope
of no rain.