The Roots of Us

We don’t talk about the roots—
just the fruit,
the blooms we bring to Sunday dinners,
the shade we cast in photographs.

But the roots?
They stretch beneath silence.
Tangled in secrets,
drenched in prayers,
wrapped around names
we only speak when the lights are off.

Some were broken before they reached water,
some dug through stone to keep growing.
There are roots that sing in the rain,
and roots that rot in the dark,
but still—they hold.

We are held.
By hands we’ve never touched.
By love passed down like heirlooms
with no instructions.

This tree—
it stands because
something deep decided
not to let go.