Deep Rooted
This set of seven poems was written as a part of my piece "Deep Rooted".
Silver strips ripple though dips in the dry road
Bright heat illuding squinting eyes
My mechanical steed, ATV
Spurs through blankets of gold and green stretched over knotted hills and valleys
Dust-thick air rushes past my ears
brushing my skin —
I roll to a stop, rubber crunching stray pebbles. An owl at high noon
ten paces forward
locks dark eyes with mine.
Wingtips stretch broad, grazing wheat on either edge
An effortless lift, swift descent into the grain
escaping view.
Even in mid-summer
morning air chills.
Haze droops lazily over the gently stirring shore
The sun rising with us
As we shimmy the aluminum can we call a fishing boat
over wet sand, guiding it into the water.
The motor sputters and shakes, settling into a dull hum as we drift to the center of the lake.
While I’m not sure how the fish will see it, I choose the prettiest lure to human eyes, a glittered swirl
with neon tufts.
In mid-summer evening,
We feast on patience reaped
Silver scales seared on crackling flame
Tender flesh teased from brittle bone
Gone much quicker than it was caught.
Rushing falls swallow shrieks of laughter as we amble to the river.
Like fawns stumbling over scattered stones, we tread with quickly numbing toes.
The water has weight, depths absorbing silken moonlight
Wading neck-deep, we cling to each other, forming daisy chains to steel against currents
that beckon us under, call us downstream.
We emerge shivering, tracing precarious steps to reunite with socks and shoes.
We tell secrets hidden by the river-roar,
conjured by a bottle of Italian wine passed hand to hand.
We are visitors in an unfamiliar town, up against an unfamiliar countryside.
None of us will ever see this riverbank again.
It was probably about an hour before we realized we'd made a wrong turn.
Too far in to double back, two overly ambitious twelve-year-olds had little choice but to bear down
and continue the well-trod path until we reached where we started.
Plodding through endless thicket of dense forest, our only guide was
the lakeside in the distance,
which only seemed to grow closer if we refused to look.
Thorns brush my ankles as a word of warning-
Don't worry, I whisper, we'll take only what we need.
Purple scattered across a rolling field
reaching under, weaving through,
scouring for ripest fruit-
small tart-sweet, softly warmed under idle afternoon sun.
Once pockets and buckets and fists were full, we packed our harvest
into a pie-dish, tucked them neatly into dough,
and sat rapt beside the oven door
awaiting our creation.