The plant I am today is hard to know.
Nurtured in loam (over-watered,
water-warped, filled with inorganic ideation),
said loam was seminal, certainly.
No one may outrun their given rootstock,
though the young, pollen, uproot anyway,
try bootstrap our own wind, flee town on whatever copter sycamore.
I fend phylloxera, plumb-line roots into deep clay,
strain to stockpile auxin, to bud, fruit, ripen in one day;
branch against the dim light of my loam and chill of this tight clay -
that said, I present this grape.
[NaPoWriMo #1. I will write one poem a day, supposedly. Be sure to follow Johnny and Kit going for it here and here.]