The Bowel of the Root

In the dark house, so big and wide,

I made it myself, with quiet pride.

Cell by cell, in a quiet corner,

I built it up, with grey paper and glue,

Whistling and wiggling, thinking of something else,

Creating a home, all by myself.

So many cellars, with eelish delvings,

I am round as an owl, with my own light shining.

I may litter puppies, or mother a horse,

My belly moves, as I must make more maps, of course.

These marrowy tunnels, I eat my way through,

Moley-handed, with all-mouth and no clue.

Licking up bushes, and pots of meat,

Living in an old well, a stoney retreat.

Pebble smells, turnipy chambers so small,

Filled with humble loves, breathing and all.

Footlings, boneless as noses, so tender and sweet,

Warm and tolerable, in the bowel of the root, where we meet.

Here's a cuddly mother, in the dark house I've made,

In this world I've created, where I've long since stayed.

A refuge for all, in the depths of the earth,

A home for the humble, where love finds its worth. ("The Bowel of the Root") by Courtney Weaver Jr.