When the car stops
in the field, I open
the door and get out.
There are no shoes
on my feet and the grass
is cold. I walk a ways,
knees brushing blades,
until I reach an American
Chestnut growing overhead.
The light winks down
at me through leaves
shifting in the wind.
Old friend
I say, palms pressed
to bark, chin raised.
It laughs and watches
as I slip down onto 
knees at its base.
There is blue grass
and I pull it free
and braid it round
my wrists. I wriggle 
my fingers into the dirt
until my nails are black.
I lift a handful,
crumbling and damp,
to my mouth and chew.
Clods and mycorrhizae
break between my teeth.
Minerals and organic matter
slide over my tongue.
Roots and richness
settle in my stomach.
I eat and eat and eat
until I can eat no more.
I look to the tree, mouth
smeared with soil
and send a single thread
down the roots that connect us
that twine around my legs.
See, we are the same
you and I
and I have missed you