Devil's Walking Cane

Devil's Walking Cane Beneath the placid surface of soil, roots lurk like witches' claws, waiting to spring from warted fingers their stubborn shoots. Driven like some secret sin, they pierce the earth's flesh while we lie dreaming in our beds. Overnight the dirt is converted to dark dogma, by morning basking with the congregation of devil's cane. If we descend like God's wrath with mattock and hoe, it would take a miracle to stop this marching, these resolute roots commissioned to replication. If we dig it out like evil, the tiniest fingers remain, determined, waiting for dark. Perhaps no blessing can save us now, no exorcism expunge such deep desire. —Jane Sasser ...