Beneath the dirt,
perhaps two inches,
perhaps ten feet,
lies a maze of roots,
thin spindly things
or thigh thick oak roots
nourishing their
trunks, branches, leaves, seeds,
holding in place rich soil
for foundation of forest,
elm, pine, maple,
continuing.

The Sahara holds no roots
beneath its sand.
Once, yes, but now, no,
so winds, wild in their
uncaring forse and direction
whip sand from dune into dune.
There, nothing is secure.
Wind blown waves of bitter dust.

Rootless, we are sand, storm-blown,
thirsting in a dry land,
drowned in drifts.

Rooted we are cool woods,
continuing.