There is finally time to care
for the spring buds
that sag on stems, bleary stares
cracked with promises of reds and pinks.
Perched on this hemisphere
where growing seasons
are wedged between winters,
I cannot tell if they thirst for rain or sun.
Still, roots reach into earth.
Anchor.
Then I wonder why I do not do the same,
and it makes me itch. And I want to say,
don’t grip so hard to this place.

At night, while
rabbits tear into leaves,

I think about roots again.
Envy the pale split ends
that decide to loosen
and give chase to the water
poured on their wilting crowns.
Downward. Deeper. To soak
into the surface
of a subterranean stream
that hunts for
a kelp-drowned shore,
just to feel the ocean stumble
and roar
as it bends
to moonlight.