Root

An uncle to a child I'll never know.
Watch this situation unfold like chess:
The innocent strike out to claim their place
And black broods, boiling a slantward threat.
What white pawn ventures unanswered by those
Anti-material shadows face to face?

The pawn is swallowed up without a trace
Sacrificed for the triumph overall
Of a steady income and "time to grow."
Now, I can hear my dead grandfathers call
To their little lost seeds dispersed through space--
and we are all black roots and binding slow.