Chani Zwibel

In chilled-damp, black earth
under onion-grass, new spring’s fresh, plush vegetable carpet,
eager child’s dirt-smeared fingertips dig
pliable soil for cool, thick caress
of soft ground like dark paint.
She touches mossy velour blankets
keeping tree’s feet warm.
She does not know
deep embedded roots reach
thirsty depths, their hidden walls
mining water far beneath the dreams of leaves.
Buried in quiet caves below,
Forgotten as naught but rusted pipelines
planned long-ago, while a modern city
sits atop their bones.