Once the tree outside the window called,
to tell me about how the earth felt
between its roots, under its feet, growing forever
through layers of soil and gravel,
through coke-can and dead body.

"My roots can feel the winter,
this fake california winter,
and ridiculous mid-Jan mercury rising."
I said, "its the same where I come from..."
the tree snorted and said, "whatever".

These roots of mine, my life's anchor,
can break through concrete and sewage pipe,
down to where the desert sand still lives,
each grain wishing freedom from time,
dreaming it lay baking in the sunlight, lazily on a holiday.

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