Now rootless and without purpose, I stand
In the kitchen with my rubber boots on.
Wait for the stick figure in the tree house.
At midnight she will cry out loud. The flow
Of tears will be too much. It's called drowning
In one's sorrow. By morning, I am in a tide
Of seawater. Carefully, I mop each room.
After, in the purple light of evening,
I'll find a bed of moss for the stick figure.
She must not, must not up and break on me.
Her wailing brings the onion seed to sprout.
Her wailing makes the earth soft.
Else the tree of the tree house will not grow.
Else the onion will be like a small corpse
In my hand. I must, must gather the moss.
Mother, I am rooted and with purpose.
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