We pass through the grasp  
and cling of briers,
              under dogwoods opening
their white crosses,
             to plant Ozark Chinquapins,  
hoping to bring them back
              from blight.  
I peer into each hole
              we step over, 
wondering who lives here,
              whose neck bends,  
whose legs curl,
              who takes rest  
in this womb of soil.
              I want them for neighbors.  
Am I some body
              these tree roots yawn for?  
Can I take shelter 
             in their place?