At The Root, There It Was

by S. Augustin

 I remember when the term “God” no longer suited us
and what we had created.
Invoked in despair, desperation or pleasure
all no longer big enough to hold you.
I even made an atheist say it once
“Ohh, my God” he’d rasped
in between shallow, bare breaths
“Oh my…Who?” I inquired
as my teeth glistened in the moonlight

I could almost hear You
laughing at my irreverence.
I’ve never been able to hide from You
so I’ve simply accepted
that You’d be there
anyway, anyhow.

Even in that tiny Brooklyn bedroom.
Even in the frustrating silences
when I’ve most wanted You
to speak the whole fuck up.

Forgive me, friends
for what is most loved about me
is that I am the one who dares.
Most don’t like that,
but You do.

If they ask of roots
should we tell them of trees?
Majestic beings that
the spirits rustle through
Still. Moving. Yet, unmovable
at the same damn time.

If they ask of roots
should we tell them of water?
Rushing by like a past life.
Giver and Destroyer.
All that we are,
all that makes us whole.
To fill up, then wash it away
like the very air we breathe.

When they ask of roots
should we tell them of stars?
for when we see them
above, untouched
we do not realize that they are comprised of
what we have put below.

Long gone, yet still there
gaseous, bright, hot, alive.
No more use of counting them
than we would strands of hair
too much, too long, too short
whatever it is that stops us from putting a number
on that which we do not understand.

And yet we ask something dead to grow,
just like we hurry forward so quickly
so that which grows, dies
and it makes no sense
and neither do we.

Rooted, grounded, here one minute
gone for or from the rest
never really gone at all.
The things that make us
never die,
no matter how far from them
we claim to be.

So the next time they ask you about roots,
remind them.
I Am the end, I Am the beginning,
I Am what you take in,
and what you release.
For you cannot see Me
and yet, I Am. Everywhere.

If you dig up the tree, whatever you find
beneath those gnarled, twisting sinews that made you?

Do not be ashamed of it.
Do not be ashamed of Them.
Do not be ashamed.

You must dig to know
You must know to find
You must find to Love
You must love to be
You must be to see
and you must see to ever know
what makes you more.
More than what you think you are,
like a million tiny pieces
of the Unseen.

And that is what
We are made of.