We saw a root protrude from the ground
And could not tell which tree had sent it out
So distant is the little scrap of forest
That backs up to the yard

They say the surface is a mirror
The roots replicating exactly
The extent of the spreading branches
Though unseen by us who tread above

With what force a tree drives itself
With what determination
Shoving aside all resistance
From the solid ground

And in its journey
At least in our slim sample
The root had lost all character
Of oak or beech or sweetgum

And we spoke of our perplexity
Of cause and shape and what and how
The great root spoke to us
In unintelligible sentences