Dagmayhood

a poem by Roger B Rueda

Water, earth, or rays are superfluous to it.
Deep down in the core, come hell
or high water, something pushes,
then parched curls of the corm tingles,
and that something starts to lay out,
makes space for a sprout to shift up
through all the coats that have moulded
bit by bit, one about the other,
for a spell long past remembering,
and set off the outer skin  dry russet,
to tore asunder and chip off.
Inside, the core kips - up to that instant,
unidentified, cryptic, when it stirs, rouses,
calls on the root and sends
new shoots  skyward headed for the glow.