I found them just before the killing frost. 
 In the garden, with my rake, I uncovered 
 3 roots, interwoven. But the roots opened 
  
 their eyes and had in their faces the light-
 shy look of old women—like root grannies. 
 Holding them, I felt stirring or quickening. 
 
 They made whispery sounds, a moth and milk-
 weed speech. I cradled them in my shirt and
 brought the intertwined in my house to keep. 
  
 I laid them with the Christmas cactus 
 and poured water over them. They shivered 
 and some of their nodules became stiff. Out
  
 I went for willow and oak leaves for warmth. 
 The wind was cold.  Blushing, I crossed my arms 
 as I met my neighbor at the mail box. 
  
 On the couch and lulled by the rise and fall 
 of their decomposing covers, I fell 
 asleep like falling into a deep hole.
  
 I dreamt I was led by the root grannies 
 to a ravine. We met a water snake.  
 Motioned forth by nodular arms, I joined 
  
 them on the snake’s back which we rode through tunnels,
 under roads and all the way to the ocean. 
 Out the window the sun made long shadows 
  
 of the lawn chairs. The neighbor’s dog pissed on
 the cottonwood tree that had an orange X 
 painted on the trunk. A single goose honked
 overhead in frantic flight toward the west.
  
 Under the just blooming Christmas cactus,
 the root grannies were not sleeping but knitting 
 and weaving willow and oak together.