The root and the rock

I am the root

that finds

the

single

drop

of water

hidden

in the blistering rock.

I refused the clean,

sharp blessing

of the

cut. You watched

me fall,

expecting me to rot.

But I have eaten earth, my throat is soot.

Watch me grow: slow, meticulous.

I don't return to play; I return to claim.

My shadow has no name.

It is a branch that tangles the electric lines.

It scratches the rough rind

of a hostile town

and tastes the cold, wet dark of what sustains.

It is the climber that refuses to descend.

It is the ancient no that answers yes.

I am the thing that makes a

meSs.