Sometimes the sound of roots singing is – 

Rain on the porch roof, dripping from the eaves

Hot smoke from cornbread in an iron skillet

A low burble of potatoes boiling 

A thrumming pop from a Mason jar of green beans

The soft sizzle of salmon patties frying

Tea purling from a pitcher onto cracking ice in heavy glasses 

A voice carrying across thick summer evening air, “Dinner’s ready!”

The round heavy bong of a dinner bell

A low hum of hymns from a woman in an apron

Underscored by the thrum of voices, 

Songs lifted by the women who came before

Aunts, sisters, cousins, mamas, and grandmamas

Neighbor ladies, church ladies, friends, and teachers

Coveys of women

Singing deep songs of love

That we feel in our bones

Laying their luscious bounty

On heavy laden tables draped in feed-sack tablecloths

Praying, telling stories, laughing

And always

Offering one more helping