the root man cometh, and the root man saveth.

the root man.  a man of the earth.  thirty some odd years ago the great flamboyan tree on the island of enchantment opened it’s vibrant womb and dropped it’s seed to the earth.  water and sun gave it breath and up sprouted the root of a man.  the root man.

the root man works for the earth the way a bee to honey, a beaver to wood.  the root man works the earth because he is the earth, and to work the earth is to acknowledge this fact deeply. 

a georgian summer drought doesn’t stop the root man.  the root man scratches at the cracked surface, snapping and decapitating weed heads.  the root man can feel the itch on his skin as the soil dries and cracks around him.  the root man delivers water, like two soldiers with a red cross on their army greens, sprinting through rogue fire with a white cot, to all the growing plants in all the living fields.  the root man cometh, and the root man saveth. 

the root man stands in the corner of his field, inhales the air of a thousand clouds, and exhales man’s life into earth’s belly.  the root man’s feet have no soft bottoms—not even calloused soles—the root man’s feet turn deep brown and shoot from his ankles in six hundred directions.  the root man’s heart pumps blood straight from his hearth to his brain to his roots--and from his roots, the farm takes life.

the root man shepherds our beetles and bugs and worms and bees and birds.  he plants our progeny, he nurses our infants, he tends to our children.  the root man is mother and brother and father.  the root man gives life.