Marge Fulton

Root Ball

Determining the size of a root ball is not easy
in fact it is the ultimate tug-of-war. I try to unearth
ivy growing up the north side, the neglected side.
One eye out for poison ivy, and snakes giving birth
in shadows. I see the gaps in the fence where the dogs
escape. Roots thin as corn silk come forth along
with a baseball reduced to threads, unopened contact lenses,
and a gel pen. On the top step, it happens. The biggest root yet.
I pull the web of worms and wood chips harder and harder
until a thing rises from below like a zombie coming up for air.
I love dirt; my fingers submerged in soil
black as asphalt. Ivy will be tamed but not my soul. I
cling to the ruins of this forsaken place and you.

— Marge Fulton

Marge Fulton moved to Hazard, Kentucky with her husband and three children nearly twenty years ago. HA recntly retired special education teacher, Marge now devotes herself to her twin loves of writing and painting. Her short story collection, All Roads Lead To Hazard was listed in the Nov. 2008 issue of The Good Book Guide. She is a juried member of the Appalachian Artisan Center and will have her first show of water colors at the Mountain Arts Center in September.

Marge blogs at Muse Mountain.

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Where the Red Road Meets the Sky

The death of humanism

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