by David R.
I know where my roots curve
on the right side of the Colorado River
West of the Grand Canyon
and into the Golden State.
I know where my roots scream
of words no one can understand.
The speaker thinks they can hear;
but everyone knows they can't.
I know where my roots can be exciting
with all the places and people to see
the rides and roller-coasters are exciting,
with mice, and flags, and various berries.
I know where my roots wash away
leaving smooth sand and silica
along with a hermits old home
and white foam.
I know where my roots are;
they're where I left them.
They don't move;
they never leave my home.
I know what my roots do.
They hold me in place,
and lead me home;
and a house is not a home.