Through the Weave

The smell came back in the freight elevator —

shed and field, both at once.

That summer I wrapped root balls

for the dead of July, pulling tight

around soil that kept sifting through

the weave. Brown dust in the light,

a thin line on concrete, new

each time I swept.

The weave is loose by design.

You're meant to let the roots

breathe. Let the dirt resign

itself to the slow way shoots

push through what holds them.

I was nineteen. I thought

if you pulled hard enough

nothing came apart.