In third grade, I punctured a sweet potato's

middle with toothpicks, suspended it halfway

in a cup of water until sprout-like whiskers

 

swam along its bottom. On day nine leaves

crowned it. I scooped out soil with my hands

and buried it up to its neck. I am no stranger

 

to roots. I've laid down my own in places

where corn and tomatoes grow in vacant lots,

where cilantro and basil thrive on window sills

and in cities balanced on ancestor's bones.

 

Roots are hardy travelers, adaptable:

they float on water, cohere to wood,

burrow deep beneath foundations,

buckle floorboards. 

 

© by Diana Anhalt.

Used with the author's permission.