By Janet Spoon

The world can’t see my roots growing abysmal and broad, it’s a world witnessed only by bugs, snakes, and spiders. The world can’t see the struggle, the digging deep through rocks and stone, not an ounce soil to poke into below. 

Above, a leaf, a vine, and a branch or two, sometimes wilted, sometimes faded, sometimes dry, at times brittle, and at times green, all at the mercy of a wind that blows.

There’s a realm unseen of roots pushing, clawing, wriggling through the inflexible ages, struggles will eventually give the highest worth to my fruit. 

The wine bottled and corked, laid on its side, better still through a passage of time––to be tipped, poured, and consumed… the superb and final product of my root.

Spent and with container cast away, don’t be fooled, my roots continue to abide underneath the trodden way. But above, a leaf, a vine, and a branch or two, sometimes paled, at times brittle, sometimes lithe and green and full of sap, sometimes dried. 

My supporting cast beneath the scene witnessed only by bugs, snakes, and spiders. The world can’t see the struggle, the digging deep through rocks and stone, not an ounce of soil to poke into below. This unseen realm of growth, roots pushing, clawing, wriggling, and struggling gives the highest superiority to my fruit. The many times I have cried.

‘Tis gleaned by a Husbandman, the harvest, the fruit of my struggles crushed into a something fresh. A wine complete with new ampule to clothe me in. Laid aside and finished by the passage of time until ready to be tipped and poured and devoured by others.  

And I begin again. Subterranean roots pushing, clawing, wriggling through the inflexible ages, struggles to give the highest worth to my fruit,, my precious, for to give to another.