The Roots Underneath

August 2016

Scent of flowers rising, flying

In the fulminating breeze

Underneath a unicolored ether, draping over

Over all of it

The flowers flecking the widths

The widths of plains and plains stretching and stretching

Rising and falling, here and there

Now and then

The world might have pushed them

To break in such dissonance

Like the wind, discontent

Who hauls the flowers to the left or the right

The constrained flowers remain relentless

The haughty wind remains reckless

The wind bellows with all of its potency

The flowers recede, but never cease to heave

The wind captures them

But they never repent

Always restraining their stem

Against the malevolent tyrant

They fought

Some won and some lost

And from the losses and the void that these lasts create

In the still sound of the after-war, harrowing questions awake

Why must the sun leave the world in darkness?

Why must there be rain?

Why must there be life so that all who bears it end lifeless?

Why these plains are not plain?

Why must they rise and fall, again and again?

Plains are not plain

For they would be no rise

Indeed, if they were plain, there would be no fall

No rain

No darkness

Nothing lifeless

Yet now its call arises

The undismissive truth

That without rise, above the soil, there, no flower would ever lie

And that, now, here, none of them would ever see the sky

Now come this unbidden joy

And this uncanny reverence

For the soil under the sun which boils

And even for the wind in spite of its malevolence

A thankfulness

A solemnity

For the sight of the plains

And for the roots underneath