Writer Between Worlds

We had roots. 
Our roots had roots. 
Our roots' roots had roots, but then 
fall came and our leaves began 
to fall, one by one 
to the ground, 
crackling dry. 

And in the soil they made we were rooted. 

But the light called to our children 
and to our children's children. 
They clambered 
to the top of our empty branches, 
looked around, were awed, and took 
flight. 

We stayed behind, never having learned 
to walk. 
We held our branches high up in the air, 
a silent imploration: 'Here, 
we are your roots in the sky, 
when you tire of those far horizons, 
alight. Our branches are still empty and 
the forest floor still smells of you.'