Egg Root

Rummage through the overgrowth
As much as I may, I can't
Find detritus from this day
The roots saved from dissolving
To wrap in their slow embrace
The way they sometimes wrap rocks,
Bricks, bottles, or foundations

So tightly as to add them
To the trees' architectures,
Like skulls in cathedral crypts,
Time capsules in campus gates,
Or the egg in a kiwi,
Intrinsic to the nature
Of the things store-housing them.

Some dates are destined for loam,
Not because nothing happened
Or they deserved devouring,
But because no memory
Loved them enough to clutch them.
What started as alien
Disappears or becomes us.