“Branches Are Veins, Roots Are Flame”

Roots Ground Me

“Branches Are Veins, Roots Are Flame”

by Vicki Lawana Trusselli

Roots in Choctaw soil,

steady as care, deep as memory.

They hold me in the rhythm of family,

in the sovereign flame of integrity.

Branches stretch beyond erasure,

each leaf a witness, each song a protest.

They carry me forward,

into the chorus of care,

into the archive of tomorrow.

Roots hold me in the soil of care,

Choctaw echoes steady my flame.

Branches rise toward the sky of protest,

each leaf a witness, each song a name.

Roots ground me

in Choctaw soil,

where care is not weakness

but the rhythm of survival.

Roots ground me

in family voices,

in rose petals,

in Sweetie Bird’s dawn chorus,

in the sovereign flame of memory.

Branches carry me forward,

stretching past erasure,

each leaf a witness,

each song a protest,

each breath a promise.

Roots ground me,

branches lift me.

Together they weave

a living archive,

a chorus of care

that refuses silence.

DNA of ancestors across the world,

reminders that I am a branch spreading,

carrying memories around the globe.

Choctaw DNA whispers remembrance:

stay strong inside,

do not let others pull you down,

do not let others conquer your flame.

Roots ground me.

Tree branches spread through my ancestral lineage,

woven with truth,

with love and caring,

with storytelling.

Respect your elders,

for they are the soil,

the roots that hold us steady.

I am the branch,

stretching outward,

carrying their rhythm forward.

Roots ground me in creation stories,

where the Sky World breathes above,

and the three realms whisper their spirits

into the soil, the wind, and the flame.

Roots ground me in nature’s cadence,

every pebble sacred, every leaf a prayer.

Tobacco and sage rise as offerings,

connecting my breath to ancestors’ song.

Roots ground me in ceremony,

Green Corn feasts of renewal,

dancing flames of law and care,

settling disputes beneath the stars.

Branches carry me forward,

two souls entwined

one mortal, one immortal,

traveling between worlds,

reminding me that care never dies.

Branches stretch into remembrance,

into truth, into storytelling.

They carry Choctaw rhythm outward,

a lineage of care and protest,

a sovereign flame refusing silence.