Cuttings by Theodore Roethke

This urge, wrestle, resurrection of dry sticks,
Cut stems struggling to put down feet,
What saint strained so much,
Rose on such lopped limbs to a new life?
I can hear, underground, that sucking and sobbing,
In my veins, in my bones I feel it --
The small waters seeping upward,
The tight grains parting at last.
When sprouts break out,
Slippery as fish,
I quail, lean to beginnings, sheath-wet.

by Theodore Roethke

Other poems by 'Theodore Roethke'

Journey Into The Interior

Snake

My Papa's Waltz

Root Cellar

The Waking

Elegy For Jane

I Knew A Woman

The Survivor

In A Dark Time

Night Journey