This Root A Pulse Poem by Jenny Kalahar

Firm pulsebeats shock the nerves
of my palm and fingers
This raw root I hold is alive
Its clods of soil black
cling to light brown, fragile tendrils

I cannot see movement
but feel within this silence a call for spring
And then I hear it:
a violin-like solo
played on thin, untangling tendrils
Nearly imperceptible, but there
Bach-like
hushed as a peat bog
A song for rain
for solid ground to live within

I hum along as I bury what may be amaryllis
or yellow queen hyacinth
Pour water just so
wetting to enliven
and then stand aside
dirty hands planted on satisfied hips
And still I hum
calling for clear water to dance beneath
solid ground to live within
and roots all of my own