Roots

                  
I walk on the wrinkled knuckles of roots
that reach far beyond my knowing
into blackness and life. They find water.

I eat the blossoms of the purple vetch.
I want their surrender to come inside me.
The meadow is its own kind of wisdom.

So many unseen creatures, so many
forms of life thriving, glorifying.
The woods know so much more than I do.

I sit still as my root hairs
feel their way among the stones
and memories to a river of stars.

A wolf appears and waits,
the earth meditates, breathing,
the trees sing their ancient hymn in me.