Morning, old friend, has fallen into trees,
collects in the forest’s corner like dust.
Rooting red earth, ginger blooms,
and so do I—petals yellow,
unfold for the sun-sprawled sky.
There’s a boiling beneath my thread-thin roots—
earth’s call to be unburied, rediscovered.
Wind whispers to each of my leaves
in a language I don’t recognize.
I dig my feet deeper,
stretch out my greening stems
in search of words.
Author: Sarah Escue
Assistant Editor: Hilda Carroll/Editor: Renée Picard
Photo: Patrick McNally/Flickr