What the Welsh and Chinese Have In Common

Carrots

Their roots deepen like a woman

who will not leave her home,

giving sturdiness

that must be counted in weeks.

The strongest part

is kept from ice, from wind,

pressed into the invariable

heat of earth.

These are reservoirs like

the diaries of the lonely,

contemplative and

singular. Each evening passing,

they thicken.

Uncovering a carrot

late in August

I pause to consider

the value of solitude;

the daily waking

to choose a private landscape

where minute is

imperative. The mornings

without voice lag

like shaded frost

through noon.

The later hours, those sullen

times, linger

beyond their welcome.

There is a steadiness

to this sloth, the day

trailing day into months.

In the months, a history assembles.

What place more secure

than in soil, where roots swell

hidden and rarely disturbed.

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