I was planted and my roots grew

That is what roots do.
Saguaro drowning in a swamp.

Arnica wilting on a beach.
Redbud leeched on desert plains.

Yet reaching into earth,
for sun, for what we need.

Where is the shovel?
Where are my hands?

These needles, this heart leaf,
these buds, too anemic,

too deep to wrench out
of ground and leave.

January 2010