transplant ovenbird I’m not a perennial easily divided. My roots cling to whatever soil becomes familiar, attuning to the quiet hymns of snails, sleeping to the shush of fallen leaves passing through invertebrate forms. When I’m pulled from the ground, when my body is shaken to loosen the dirt clinging to my bones, I panic. There’s no earth between here and where I’m going, just endless air. I already feel myself wilting. Soon I’ll be somewhere I used to call home. Soon you’ll open the door and offer me water as if it could save me. I’ll drink down everything you have to give. And live. 260721 what's it to you? who go blather from