Before Roots

Before Roots

The old tree’s roots are stable; I wallow in its shadow-leaf pool

for seven short minutes, head perched silent on the sloped bark,

arms nestled in sparse grass, legs root-like in shallow arcs,

en route to higher learning.
                                                        Though in truth I rose one mid-fall

to that thin treetop and felt the tender tip – the youngest branch –

now I neither climb, nor anchor an excuse not to move.

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I was lying underneath a tree on my college campus for several minutes in between appointments and I was remembering how it had been so long since I had climbed a tree and regretting it and I was wanting to not move and also thinking about a poem I'd read recently which starts with "The hook links to whatever's stable and in between all that I began to formulate the idea for this poem. That was one heck of a long sentence, but yeah, that's the way it goes.