Ohio, the first familiar face I found was Robert Paschell, the
wandering village poet of Yellow Springs. With a long white beard and a head full of poems and puns, we used to talk about the universe and such when our paths crossed 20 years ago. Without knowing a thing about my current work, he started telling me a poem about threads and webs. The last line of the poem is up above.
I visited all sorts of roots that day: the copper beach tree with the elephant knees, the exposed roots along the little river in the Glen Helen, and the twisted sculptural ones along the path.