Uprooted

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My favorite trees grow upside down.
I like to chop off their dangling roots
and toss them in a salt-water lake.
They float and bob in the waves
for a while, but the salt finally gets to them.

Sometimes I tunnel down to the tree top,
show it my old umbilical cord,
say, it’s one of your roots that touched the sky,
aren’t you glad? I return to the surface
and plant seeds, not returning for years.

Mother, father, this is what it’s like every day
when I know you’re close to dying
and I’ve not touched your faces since
I was born and I don’t remember that day
or why you left behind my umbilical cord.

UPROOTED by Tom Holmes


Photo used under CC.

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About Author

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Tom Holmes is the editor of Redactions: Poetry, Poetics, & Prose and the author of seven collections of poetry, most recently The Cave, which won The Bitter Oleander Press Library of Poetry Book Award for 2013 and will be released in 2014. His writings about wine, poetry book reviews, and poetry can be found at his blog, The Line Break.

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