Roots Grow Deep in Barren Ground


This is the first in a series of poems I’ll be posting here.  I wrote this specific one many years ago for a woman whom I thought I was going to marry (but did not).  It should be noted that I no longer feel this way about the person for whom it was written, but in a more general way, such feelings are still a part of me, and could well be a part of those who read it.

Roots Grow Deep in Barren Ground

Roots grow deep in the stone of your ground.
Trickles from your craved heart touch
Ever so softly
The tips of the tendrils
Of the great roots
Of you,
A small
Lone
Tree.

Not old, not grown
Not tender

On the outside.

It has bark like
Granite
And
Leaves
Like obsidian,
Roots like beams of the most
Massive building.

It stands as if petrified
Inside its claustrophobic shell.

Hell.

But on the inside there is sap like the finest
Greek honey!
Waiting to be let out to give precious

Love

Almost eating you from the inside,
This tender love is ready
To spill forth
And is bursting that hard shell
Which leaks
Ever so begrudgingly
And calls itself a betrayer,
And thinks it’s breaking a promise
It never made,
Having killed the sweet kind person inside…

Or so it hoped.

But the blood hopes–
Its life hopes,–
To go share with another
To dance in the moonlight
And glimmer on the branches;

That greatest gift is sweet on the lips

And smiles to the eyes,

Honey to the spirit.

Oh, let your heart, that great
Fount of your soul
Come out
And drip freely
And replenish the dry ground.

Your roots are quite deep
But that tree is alone!

And the anger on the branches only masks
Dry  tears.

So make rain for the soil,
Make haste to be touched.
Hear sweet wind;
Let it lift up your head
And bring breath to your eyes.

See those who would live by you
Despite your dry ground.
Hear those who adore you
Despite your hard shell.

Feel those who would be with you as if
No soil were softer
Whose roots
Would penetrate
Even the most rugged earth,
Just for the chance to be
A little closer;
Only to look into those
Emeralds in your eyes.

Good would it be if there were
Two
Trees standing.

Good would it be
If their roots could
Touch.

Wonderful would it be
If there were no more inner
Sobbings

Inside that mast

That monolith

Your pillar of hiding.

Good would it be

To let these

Good things

Be.

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