They Say/My House

They say
that it’s like being on a bridge
between where you were and where you’re going
and that nobody builds a house on a bridge.

And so my house is one hundred feet
up in the air, with its thick roots dangling,
root-fingers reaching down, every root-eyeball
seeking seeking for a hold on the earth below.

My house drifts slowly, heading somewhere,
movement directionally consistent
but the destination invisible, the way opaque.

I turn my head just slightly, warily, and my house
blinks, and tremors rumble through the roots.
There are other houses drifting up here, all with
the same heading, all reaching down for a hold
on familiar earth passing below, out of reach.

They say
that the giant Redwoods, towering ancient Sequoias,
have comparatively shallow roots—
not nearly deep and thick enough to support their bulk and height.
Instead, they spread their roots sideways, and link with the others
around them, forming a vast underground network
of support.

In my dream, we sit at a tiny table for two
covered with a thick white tablecloth.
Candles, the murmuring of other guests.
Your hand, stained with roots and dirt,
rests on the table. I reach for it and look up,
and see myself, eyes filled with tears—
I slide into the dark mossy green at the center.