Down the road from where I live,
Hidden by forsythia branches,
Found old crumbling door leading to root cellar,
Vine leaves whispering as they
Brush against each other.
As I approach, they hush green breath,
Embarrassed by the way they creep,
Hide a secret obscure in deep,
As if by deflecting sun and human eyes
They could in peaceful coolness keep
Roots out of sight, deliberately concealed.
Entombed, these roots speak only to themselves,
Pretend the conversation ended
Just minutes before I arrived
To brush the fading yellow flowers aside….
Bare their skins as though ashamed,
Fearful that if touched by human hands,
Their beauty would be panned,
Boiled, forked and eaten publicly with salt.