Root Cloth

The new sapling, wrapped tight,

its root ball bound in rough burlap.

It scratched my hands when I unwound it,

left tiny fibers on my sleeves.

Coarse weave, like an old sack,

dusty, smelling faintly of earth and damp.

It was meant to hold, to protect,

to make a journey possible.

But now, it was just the cast-off skin,

a shell I had to tear away

so the roots could finally breathe,

spread out, claim a softer ground.

And the bits clung,

like tiny, stubborn memories

of being held too close, too long.