(or…If you wonder why…)

Regret clings to the hand
of every choice.
And I want you to know
that I know it.

Some dozen years gone,
I tangled with sky,
but cast my lot
with the underground.

And though I make
an affectation of this search —
what is true is this:
I am the roots.

Once I buried my bones
and blood to be branching
and unseen —
to hold up the above.

Which is not to say
that I no longer seek.
Only that I watch
wind and sun from below —

All the ways
they make love to dirt.
This is nourishment
for what is more wonderful.

I’ve chosen the conduit
life, buried power —
a concealment of what
keeps this thing on its feet.

And so, though my eyes
were only painted pretend
to open when I turned,
still I must —

I choose to —
remain hidden.
And I’ll savor my regrets
without salt.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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