The Source

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It was clear to us both the bush wasn’t 

close to thriving there, and whatever

it once was—forsythia, maybe?—was so inter-

twined in honeysuckle and blackberry 

we couldn’t even find just where 

to start. The sun clipped along

like the burning arc of a briar scratch

before we stood back beside the looming

mound of brush, after all that

the bush still untouched and bedded

just as deep. We knew then we'd need

to keep at it far beyond the afternoon

we'd thought enough, the bulk of our work 

what we once thought preliminary

procedure, cutting away these perfumed veils  

to trace the thick root of what it really is

that needs months of unmitigated 

warmth, or maybe just digging up.

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