Entangled roots smell dark, like secrets, when
I pull them from October’s musky ground.
The promises of April’s seeds and rain
bore fruit that drank the sun while they were drowned
in earth. And now they only seek decay,
like secrets never told that have been torn,
acknowledged, smelled, then simply tossed away
with other roots and secrets yet unborn.
The ground will soon be frozen where they grew
and locked within December’s tomb of frost
remains the secret everybody knew;
the value of such knowledge will be lost.
One root becomes the earth while nourishing
another secret root that blooms in spring.