In third grade, I punctured a sweet potatoís
middle with toothpicks, suspended it halfway
in a cup of water until sprout-like whiskers
swam along its bottom. On day nine leaves
crowned it.†I scooped out soil with my hands
and buried it up to its neck.†I am no stranger
to roots. Iíve laid down my own in places
where corn and tomatoes grow in vacant lots,
where cilantro and basil thrive on window sills
and in cities balanced on ancestorís bones.
Roots are hardy travelers, adaptable:
they float on water, cohere to wood,
burrow deep beneath foundations,
© by Diana Anhalt.
Used with the authorís permission.