These roots do this to me.

Wound in the ground like the the veins near my heart.

Keep us breathing.

The twists are as tangled as teenage love. Without the naiveté.

They write names in your skin

thinking it promises some kind of permanence.

Years after we are gone, your branches will keep shape.

You are the mother.

near this river where the saplings want to know your grace.

You are the outside peace.


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