an attractively arranged bunch of flowers.
Don't get me wrong, i wanna be
your bouquet.
So that i can be a symbol of happiness and satisfaction
And provide nothing but lasting joy.
But it's sucks cause that will only be temporary.
As i, as strong and vibrant as i may seem,
cannot grow and blossom with you,
without my roots.
a light snow
a had been fallen
the brown most showed
knoll trunk knot treelings' U's
The Sound marsh water
ice clump
sparkling root etc
and so far out.
Although your roots are weak and small
And only visible to the left
Your grew strong proud and tall
With a heart so big so red
Who knows who the father is
The seed that made you grow
Sometimes you wish to see his face
The face you don't even know
Swiftly leaves and branches fall
Another life another year
But yet your still stand brave and tall
Like a tree with out a fear
The bindweed roots pierce down
Deeper than men do lie,
Laid in their dark-shut graves
Their slumbering kinsmen by.
Yet what frail thin-spun flowers
She casts into the air,
To breathe the sunshine, and
To leave her fragrance there.
But when the sweet moon comes,
Showering her silver down,
Half-wreathèd in faint sleep,
They droop where they have blown.
So all the grass is set,
Beneath her trembling ray,
With buds that have been flowers,
Brimmed with reflected day.
Though leaves are many, the root is one;
Through all the lying days of my youth
I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun;
Now I may wither into the truth.
Being out of heart with government
I took a broken root to fling
Where the proud, wayward squirrel went,
Taking delight that he could spring;
And he, with that low whinnying sound
That is like laughter, sprang again
And so to the other tree at a bound.
Nor the tame will, nor timid brain,
Bred that fierce tooth and cleanly limb
And threw him up to laugh on the bough;
No government appointed him.
Could I hear your voice
O but this silence is sweet
Words mar all beauty.
Turn then into your own heart
And pluck the roots from the soil--
The wild October sky
Rises not so high,
The tree's roots that creep
Into the earth's body thrust not so deep
As our high and dark thought.
Yet thought need not roam
Far off to bring you home.
The sky is our wild mind,
Your roots are round our spirits twined,
To ours are your hearts caught.
O, never buried dead!
The living brain in the head
Is not so quick as you
Burning our conscious darkness through
With brightness past our thought.
O cover me, long gentle grasses,
Cover me with your seeding heads,
Cover me with your shaking limbs,
Cover me with your light soft hands,
Cover me as the delicious long wind passes
Over you and me, green grasses.
'Tis of your blood I would be drinking,
To your soft shrilling listening now,
And your thin fingers peering through
At the deep forests of the sky.
O satisfy my peevish thought past thinking,
My sense with your sense linking.
Already are your brown roots creeping
Around the roots of my mind's mind,
Into the darkness hidden within
The rayed dark of unconsciousness;
Samuel is forever talking of his elm—
But I did not need to die to learn about roots:
I, who dug all the ditches about Spoon River.
Look at my elm!
Sprung from as good a seed as his,
Sown at the same time,
It is dying at the top:
Not from lack of life, nor fungus,
Nor destroying insect, as the sexton thinks.
Look, Samuel, where the roots have struck rock,
And can no further spread.
And all the while the top of the tree
Is tiring itself out, and dying,
Trying to grow.
There is happiness for me,
In sight of a great sun-warmed tree.
I pray that roots may touch my head,
When I am dead.
Maybe there is some splendid rhythm in confusion,
And there is hope in dissolution.
I should have little fear of ugly changes, little grief.
If the material of my thought were quick transmuted to a leaf.