Shroud

i am thirsty, the rains don’t 
come anymore, the earth is 
dry, i want to grow upward but
a darkness blankets my crown so
the sun no longer bathes me, my 
leaves wither early, pool in the
pit where once stood a home.
i am stuck here as the world whirls on; there 
may not be time to sprout new buds again.

the shroud is taut, holds me
back so there’s nowhere to go but
down, reach roots like gnarled fingers
into broken foundations, no 
minerals left in concrete so i
reach down further, plunge my 
taproot thru the soil, find water—
an aquifer, water trapped in rock.
i drink but it’s salty, salt patches my bark; what
i’ve found is a depthless reservoir of tears.
 
i am immobile, roots grip the
ground like mother’s body gripped
her bed, trusted we’d always be fed 
where we grew but now earth and sky 
forsake us, now the shroud and 
endless bank of tears. channeling them
comes to feel like a duty, to feel
the pain of a hundred generations, who
stored it there in summer when the
growing still was easy; when drunk on 
storms they passed it down, down, down.

slowly laboriously i eek
these words out, learn to
separate salt from water, breathe
thru the shroud and create new 
sweetness, save it up beneath thorns;
hope it’s enough to grow some flesh
around the little pits forming at my 
fingers, protect these seeds of faith.
dear god, let there be time to bear this fruit
and still a creature left to find it.