. . . roots

Startling the new-planted shrub flaunts its roots
while, around the slanted weeds, blue Morning sends roots.

Time nearly catches us again as we lie entwined;
only our haunted memories shield our roots.

Pretending not to hear my call or feel the leash's tug,
the dog keeps his vaunted nose buried in smelly roots.

Never minding the absence of soil in Heaven,
the Tree of Lights sends canted into sky its roots.

Beyond the hogpen and alfalfa field lies open pasture
where bullsnakes unhindered eat bugs among the roots.

Jammed in a desk drawer among sticky pens and paperclips,
old snapshots, Gino, hold expanded images of your earliest roots.