by susan mccaslin
You could say roots
squidged as they are
between dark heaps of soil
shivering and soaked
don’t dance
but you’d be wrong
for in that dry, wet
wondering dark
they curiously minuet
drawing near and apart
wiggle-stepping spreading
corkscrewing around stones
weaving lateral-vertical designs
criss-crossing
turning
delving, snaking
spiraling wide
clasping and unclasping
hands
in the dark ground
Roots are chords
(cords) fluent thrummings
drawing water
from dance’s core
while trees their lanky siblings
thrust themselves skyward
Yes, you’d be wrong
about roots
not dancing
simply sitting shivering and soaked
between dark clods of soil
hunching together
immobile