Only now do I fathom the magnitude of my misunderstanding.
Though I planted the linden and sage and the needle-and-thread grass individually,
though I see a juniper here and a rabbitbrush there,
seemingly occupying separate space,
underground they have connected.
Within the earth,
amidst diluvium and sweet dust and something more ancient,
the roots of sage and grass and tree have clasped together,
sharing fresh water and savoring vital minerals.
If these trees and grasses could sing,
their song would rise up in chorus from the roots.
Not the come and go leaves.
Not the rare seed.