the growing season

the roots grew under
water. clear it was,
current swift, cold-
er than my thoughts
at the slowly pacing
hours of night.

when light began to
powder the scene,
they softly rose
poking tendrils into
air. willing themselves
to know the realm
abraded by the wind.

soon duskbound wraiths
descend; the roots prepare for
the perpetuity of solitude
in the dark-knit quilt of
their whispered thoughts
against the flowing stream.