Roots

Strolling down an avenue, encountering the billowing roots of aging trees, I think of rooting, embedding myself somewhere, settle, become familiar enough with a locale to burgeon, evolve and become rooted. Yet as I see these roots spill over paths, forced into confined quarters barricaded by sidewalk and curb, I think that the contortion is descriptive of how I would feel. But perhaps I need this squishing to produce new work. Limitations often provide an environment where production is prolific.