There are roots I’ve always known which wrap around my arms,
holding me deep inside the earth, breathing my breath.
As I gasp and try to see skies weeping beautiful
Purple drops of blood that soak into a distinct loam,
Drink heavily down into the perfectly filthy soil.
Those roots are me now, tightening fingers around my own throat.
As I push up daisies, sick weeds, tulips and then, a magnificent tree;
Barren of blossom or shoot of freshness but
Full of ancient life that reaches into the terrain that formed it
Dining upon everything I thought I was.
I’ve been held in this earth, this foundation of mighty life,
Forever. Never intending any creation or death,
It all came to me nonetheless. I look up again
At furious grey skies and I see a sun fracture clouds
Scalding the dampness upon my face.
My perdition suits this bondage,
I writhe and am held fast: Suddenly my eyes soar open.
I look between particles of dirt that feed me to the world;
I stare out and feel the breeze collect spores of me, scattering me,
Sparse, but creating new origins.
Book of Pye 