Decay,
and the insistence of growth.
Roots crossing,
not asking permission—
only time.
This ground holds what has been,
and waits for what I am becoming.
I stand here briefly,
borrowed.
What will take me back
is already at work.
A confluence—
where I belong,
because I will not remain.
—
Soft ground underfoot—
what holds me, holds my ending.
Roots do not resist.
~Charles Craytor