by Ross Smith
I saw the roots
As if gripping the earth for strength, sustenance.
That is, after all what roots do.
I kept revisiting the tree with its fight against gravity.
Tempests of wind, torrents of rain,
With the accompanying freshets,
Pulling the earth from the tree’s fingers.
The mud in rills and rivulets running away.
The tree then smiled at my consternation.
“Just like you.
I’m just like you.”