Morning, old friend, has fallen into trees,
collects in the forest’s corner like dust.

Rooting red earth, ginger blooms,
and so do I—petals yellow,

unfold for the sun-sprawled sky.
There’s a boiling beneath my thread-thin roots—

earth’s call to be unburied, rediscovered.
Wind whispers to each of my leaves

in a language I don’t recognize.
I dig my feet deeper,

stretch out my greening stems
in search of words.

Relephant:

She Was the Ocean. {Poem}

Author: Sarah Escue

Assistant Editor: Hilda Carroll/Editor: Renée Picard

Photo: Patrick McNally/Flickr