Not the Vine, But the Root
By Janet Spoon
The world can’t see my roots growing abysmal and broad––witnessed only by bugs, snakes, and spiders, the world can’t see the struggle, the digging deep through rocks and stone, not an ounce soil to poke into below.
Above, a leaf, a vine, and a branch or two, sometimes wilted, sometimes faded, sometimes dry, at times brittle, at times green, at the mercy of a wind that blows.
There’s a realm unseen of roots pushing, clawing, wriggling through the inflexible ages, struggles to give the highest worth to my fruit.
The wine bottled and corked, laid on its side, better still through a passage of time––to be tipped, poured, and consumed… the superb product of my root pushing bundles green, red, and purple into the firmament.
Spent, with container cast away, don’t be fooled, my essence continues to abide underneath the way. But above, a leaf, a vine, and a branch or two, sometimes paled, at times brittle, sometimes lithe and green and full of sap, sometimes dried.
My supporting cast beneath the scene in a sphere witnessed only by bugs, snakes, and spiders. The world can’t see the struggle, the digging deep through rocks and stone, not an ounce of soil to poke into below. This unseen kingdom of growth, roots pushing, clawing, wriggling, and struggling gives the highest superiority to my fruit.
‘Tis gleaned by a Husbandman, the harvest, my fruit trodden, bunches crushed, tormented, waiting for my purpose––a new wine complete with new ampule to clothe me in. Laid aside and finished by the passage of time until ready to be tipped and poured and devoured by others.
And I commence again. Subterranean roots pushing, clawing, wriggling through the inflexible eras, struggles to give the highest worth to my fruit: my soul, my darling.