Friday, July 2, 2010



Gravity, planted. Anchors.
Grappling hooks submerged

in sand or soil, craggy cliffside
or spongy bank. Or even in air,

roots can reach up in air from
water, periscopes not seeking

to see, just keeping the plant
in place, alive. There is a hunger

in roots, a need. They climb down,
branch out, build for the plant

pipes, a stairwell, a basement.
These roots, in the business of

transportation, outreach, intake,
find their work keeps them grounded.


  1. Immediately made me (ever the nurse and admirer of the human body and its architect) think of the branching out of bronchi to bronchioles, eventually to air sacs; arteries to arterioles to capillaries; spinal cord to nerves and brain tissue to synapses. Not to mention familial, emotional, etc., etc., etc. Quite the archetypal image and summarized beautifully in your poem.

  2. As I am presently in a fox( evade capture) mood the idea of these roots scare me. The first two lines speak to the sharpness and edge that these seemingly soft tendrils of entrapment contain. Powerful poem, Hannah.


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