The Roots Go Down

 The Roots Go Down

Softly, gently I lay these fragile roots

of my small seedling into new ground.

I carefully cover them with good soil,

pat them firmly, and murmur a blessing for their future.

Across the garden, a high weed is already firmly rooted.

In contrast, my job now is to pull this plant out of its space.

All the roots need to come out too, for even without leaves

the vitality of a web of roots can push new growth into the sun.

Though trees have deep roots, some of them decide to

live above the ground. The oak’s tall majesty

is supported by a wide spread of thick smooth roots,

a visible living base that holds fast and nourishes.

The dark world of underground roots hosts a

wide diversity of life: fungi, tiny bacteria, egg nests,

earthworms, beetles, ants, small mammals,

all trading services, communicating with each other.

If you happen to be a root, it is better for you

if you’re not delicious to animals.

Humans love carrots, turnips, and parsnips.

Moles and chipmunks nibble on their own favorites.

But my animal body has no roots. I am not plugged

deeply into the earth, steadied by strong fibers.

I stand free and mobile. Am I missing something important?

Maybe, just maybe, my roots are there but invisible.

When I sit quietly, wanting to connect with something greater,

my invisible roots may reach out into my memory, and into my intuition.

If I remember to seek them, they can hold me strong, just like the oak’s.

They can push down deep into the cosmos, my anchor in the wind of life.