on moving south

Hiking today a companion pointed out a rubber tree
and I thought, so this was a reason King Leopold raped the Congo.
Very good resource, he told me, but look at the roots--
this one is only ten or twelve years old, but the roots grow fast,
go anywhere for water. They push through pipes, burst through walls,
destroy things.

I looked down at all the roots,
spreading circumferences I couldn´t see
random roots showing here and there,
roots I´ve never noticed before,
roots connected to trees,
roots under all things and in everything.

Life, I am learning, is roots,
is what you are rooted in, is who you are growing into
is how desperate you are for water.

The adjustments between my Northwest woods and mountain village Honduran life so far are extreme, nearly impossible to articulate, rich as the plantains and beans we daily consume. The strongest and oldest oak roots, I read, are gnarled, twisted, deep, forced to cling to storm-beaten hillsides, made strong by all the earth pours out.

But when I lean over the chasm of myself,
it seems my G-d is dark, and like a web:
a hundred roots, silently drinking.
This is the ferment I grow out of.
More I don´t know.