the way birdseed takes root in a tissue, frail tendrilled roots, tiptoeing through the papers folds, grasping, calcifying and tight.
the way an oak takes root, choosing a spot and smashing through the sidewalk until cement yields and takes shape.
the way a pumpkin patch grows, sending out a long vine toward the sun, another toward the arctic, a third to the evening, a fourth pointing south, until its compass holds the earth that cradles it steady, like the people who hold each other's ankles and roll and roll and roll, a wheel going everywhere and nowhere
far from home.
pumpkins.
strawberries.
melons.
you and i
