Roots

by Stephanie Augustine

Among the hemlock’s twisted roots,

beneath it’s needle-spiked boughs,

the beginning of a river

that will feed an ocean

swirls from deep caverns.

It bubbles forth, bearing life

for sun-parched grass below.

Not the fountain of youth

where one may sip of eternity,

but sacred all the same.

Shielded by walls of branches

I freely voice my thoughts and dreams

with no response but the musical murmur.

I perch on the fallen log

that has withstood the tests of time,

above the ceaseless flow.