Rosemary Dunn Moeller Holding Firmer by Roots Through Her Trunk She crashed down on oak leafed ground, stayed a long, long while before deciding to die, made sounds whether or not humans heard. Ripped by winds and weakened by rains this forty tall white oak declined. Roots had grown around large rocks underground pulling them into the light, holding them close. Roots, just naked branches, bark-less, had stretched slowly, pushing through sand and soil, searching like water witches, tunneling like miners for real wealth, dried out by salted breezes, sun-burnt, withered, fell off. All else gave up, blew away. But three twigs sought sun, their own roots from mother bark cloned, created to pierce the dying trunk, speared ground below, slowly pushing through xylem and phloem, growing upward as mother had before, smooth barked, leafed, now tall and thick, held firmer by roots through the old one. The sun-side trunk lived long enough, twigs realigned their destiny with gravity, and re-created.
98
