By ’79, parched from booze and scum
spirit—my stale statoliths ripped away
from my mycorrhiza mycelium
called home—I tumbled northeast. Frigid spray,
incessant wind of the Atlantic tossed
me across Jersey Shore’s edge, up mired coast
to Greenwich Village, nearly brain-dead, lost
as mite in beehive, gnarled meristem frost-
bitten, sapped of will, then strangely anchored
in church basements, libraries, museums,
soft, sober voices replacing rancor,
invisible power—psychic phloem—
nurturing all, my creative rebirth
lifting me back to native Southern earth.
Roger Armbrust
December 7, 2007
