Short Roots

The tree
At the church next door to me
Turned up its roots and died.
They had tried
To brace its leaning,
But it lowered
And lowered,
And then there it lay—
Leaves in grass
And matted roots in air,
Like a loafer on a summer day.

“Look there,”
Said the gardener,
“Short roots—all the growth went up—
Big branchesn—short roots.”“
How come?” I asked.
“Too much water.
This tree had it too good.
It never had to hunt for drink.”

Especially in thirsty times,
My memory steps outside,
And looks at the tree
At the church next door to me
That turned up its roots and died.