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?