Roots

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And awaiting a more seamless transition,
we lay our lace upon the mud.
Provisional hymns, drowned in the flood.
As our lips touch the food we chase…
My harrowing walk through torches,
toward the ludicrous loving stranger.
My hands are open to accept
the danger of his tenderness.
Stray blending colors waft
in needled focus. The frolicking fire.
Grinning spire punctures sky.
We at variance pull ribs from the cage.
He says that he’s a sage and turns
the water in the cup. The flexing tension.
Petitions of peace. We lay our teeth in rows,
able slings and arrows. Onward
through a marsh of bone marrow,
the bright rays of a cankered sun
colliding with clouds. He’s
endowed our future with a new skin.
We pin him in the soil so that
his roots may spread.

-r. miller

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