A Brief History of Roots


Across the Bridge of Voids
a blind and ancient woman
with high-knuckeld hands
sat weaving in the blackness

With her Milky Way stare, the Weaver
wove the aerial roots of a strangler fig
as her mother and her grandmother
had done before her

The woman and the girl saw the
the serpentine roots emerge from darkness
struggling towards a dim star only to be
waylaid at the Weaver’s bridge

The old Weaver worked the roots
around the thin ruins of Time’s tunnel
of which little more remained than
an invisible, vibrating string

A string the length of six miles
the width of one quivering note
less than a trillion times smaller
than the radius of a single Hydrogen atom
yet heavy as the earth itself

“Weaving is the work of all
who await Calafia’s return to where
the hills and valleys once resembled
the honey-gold hide of a bear

“Where does the strangler fig grow?”
asked the girl

“The strangler figs grow here and there,”
said the milky eyed Weaver, who has
has been weaving the hanging bridges for eons

“We too are like ancient trees who carry
with us in our roots, in the clinging clumps of earth,
memories of our native soil, persisting
though our homeland be lost,
our hollowness unbearable

Like us, the roots recoil from their source
and lose themselves in desiring, grasping
within a dreaming Void,
while what we sought changes
past recognition during our sleep.”

The Weaver twisted a root,
supple and green, into a coil as thick
as a man’s arm; a hundred tiny tendrils sought
for the smallest cracks in the great
bridge where they might insinuate themselves
into some brace of permanence

“We are the Strangler Figs.
People have no respect for change
They despair of it.”

And so, the woman learned certain things about roots
such as not all roots are found in soil
some lay anchor to the host’s limbs and trunk
fatally constricting vital layers

Some roots begin in the future and reach back
into the dry, scorched earth of the present
in search of nutrients and the clear water
for which they thirst

Some roots carry the blood of generations–
women, all of them Weavers–
whose tedious and tireless work
bridges all Great Chasms of Despair
across which, they pray, their Queen
may one day return


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s