Slaves of the Root

Jane and I walked through a field and saw
Flimsy tornadoes of dust and steam raise bleached eyes alongside the mountain of age.
They look on with joy and tears
as we look on without ears to speak
the language as they,
they look at lilies and formed birch wood
soiled in the soil that clings to the leaves and box.
They are ready to go.
Jane stoops to touch the
Gentle whirlwinds of dirt and water burning their mouths of sand,
sand dry from baking in earth,
earth that her hands don’t know well
like the days of old where food was our own,
so we linger here
on the edge of break and wilderness.
They work here.
I wonder if Jane understands now this
Big torn atmosphere of condensed thought showing their skin to the rage of grass
waved in fields of chains
like the ones that bind men
in lines of execution lists
as the rope hangs in front of a casket.
But the roots hold them fast.