The Root Whispers (a poem)

I can sometimes be
a little obsessed with flowers.
I dream about bearing fruit:
bright, delicious,
the star of the morning feast.
I love them, I guess, because
they catch the eye of the world,
and so much within me just wants
to catch the eye of the world.

But lately, I’ve been aching for roots.
Just the little tendrils that reach down
from delicate plants
to grasp the earth before them
and say,
“Today, I am here.
I am here.”

I have never been good about
valuing the quiet,
invisible things.
But I’m learning
that roots hold you together.
To yourself.
To the world.
And flowers fade,
fruit falls, and withers,
but the roots, they dig deeper
and stay.

Even when you’re gone,
and they’re gone,
the roots:
they’ve turned the earth,
in their own, gentle way.
They leave a whisper,
“I was here.”

I’m learning to dream
about whispers.

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