When I was six or seven,
I fought back tears.
Induced by a silent family
And loud kids at school.
When I was six or seven,
I watered my own roots.
Strength begotten by pain,
Growth begotten by digging.
Now that I am old
I ignore my problems.
And though my tears are dry,
Doubtless, I have many more.
Hiding, buried, watering roots.
Primitive Poetry 