A root beneath the dirt

My fingers press into soil, cold,

clutch a thick root, knotted and alive.

Dirt crumbles through the gaps,

a stubborn thread holding earth’s story.

I pull against its quiet grip,

a tangled memory beneath my skin,

tangled and twisted, unyielding,

a hidden weight beneath the surface.

It won’t let go, doesn’t want to,

a stubborn knot beneath the skin of the world,

a silent pulse, a slow breath,

anchoring the quiet dark.