Uprooted

I remember when sleep and rest were synonymous
and I awoke each morning, or early afternoon,
feeling like a freshly-watered plant
with my shoots yawning toward the sun.

But you strolled by,
saw opportunity,
poured that potent drink.
Flipped me, shook me from my flowerpot.
Took what you wanted to take
with palmate hands,
sober hands.

I live on the ground now
where I've been splayed atop the soil,
where vetch braids itself across my stalks
and ivy strangles my roots that ache
for moisture, security
in the damp layers of the earth.

Though I can be replanted,
I am like a tree;
what was done is visible
in the knots,
in the heartwood,
in each misshapen growth ring.