Forever a Foreigner

A single, trailing vine snakes through the grass,
leaves green.
My shoes crunch on dirt.
I grab it 
and pull.

With it rises a net of vines,
straining in tangled cords,
running under grass and over ground.

I gather the lines in my hands.
Too strong together—one at a time
roots rip free from earth.
Hand over hand,
coiling a fibrous rope,
green, sticky juices stain the pads of my fingers.
Two strain taut.
Snap!
Roots remain.

One thick vine neither snaps nor slides.
I follow, hand over hand,
to its home in the earth.
A finger hooks under.
A spurt of dirt!
Out it comes.

Trailing ends I gather,
a hairy bundle for burning.
Back to the ground.

A single, trailing vine snakes through the grass,
leaves green.
My shoes crunch on dirt.
I grab it 
and pull.

(Hebrews 12:1-4)