Root
It is always dusk back there,
the road deserted, the house quiet.
My mother stands at the doorway,
tying her apron, her broad face
turned to the earth.
tying her apron, her broad face
turned to the earth.
My father puts down his saw
next to the sawhorse
and crouches, bent to the weeds.
next to the sawhorse
and crouches, bent to the weeds.
