These roots will make me sway, but not collapse;
they melt the wisps of visions barely seen,
distill their plastic nature and perhaps
such distillations sharpen what they mean.
Encapsulated beauty, fattened kine,
a place to fish where fish should not be caught,
all symbolize intentions that are mine,
although they all escape my waking thoughts.
These roots do not inflict me with desire,
like alcohol’s ambition, nor its pain.
They have no need of water nor of fire,
Although they bring the sun and cleansing rain.
And though we dream within the sleep of death,
in these I count the coup of waking breath.