The folly of faith,

impossible to describe,

seeing the roots, the buds

connected but separated

by the trunk – crusty,

immovable, a thick stick

stubborn realty.


The buds are the fruit of faith

as the roots drink, low, snake-like in

their undercavern – moist with the fluids of earth,

tougher than the surrounding insects and worms,

carrying substance through

the almost impenetrable wood –

            wood for paper, wood for footbridges,

            and for building beaver dams

            and a multitude of varied homes.


When the buds bloom, we smell the blossom

hold their fragile sides, unplucked inside a gentle touch.

Then the songbirds come, the squirrels, the first summer’s

light, and the buds turn into apples, peaches, a succulent cherry.


The faith of the root is actualized.

We consume, satiated by the sweet flesh and nectar –

nutrients flow into fingertips, bellies-centred,

calf muscles, and our brains, fed,

able to charge unchartered pathways,

revolutionary understanding, shoulder altruism.


Faith is this folly that only

the poor in expectation can see,

faith as fodder for the foal, necessary

as the change of seasons, faith

that begins

in the root-blood-bond darkness

far below.


Copyright © 2021 by Allison Grayhurst




First published in “Rave Cage Zine” March 2021




You can listen to this poem by clicking the link below:



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