By Bethany Rohde
I’m balancing on the curvature
of roots mossed over in unreal green.
They carry a familiar bone structure:
these rough-skinned, working hands
That even now nourish tree flesh
in the bluing dark of Monday.
I trace one root. It skims grass-shallows,
and delves below my sight —
to extract its choice elixir:
It sips chilled rain from saturated earth,
leaving mineral tang on this forest’s breath.
Even what goes underground can sift,
can lift, can weave the elements–
into next spring’s leaf-fabric.
A writer from the great state of Washington, Bethany Rohde received her BA in English Studies from Western Washington University. You can read her poetry at VerseWrights.com and on her blog, worddoor.wordpress.com.