Poem by Julia Burton
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Julia Burton
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Julia Burton
Roots in Spring Runoff
I grew up watching water—
the Mississippi starting small near my door,
learning early that beginnings matter,
that headwaters determine what reaches the shore.
For years I was rooted in one place,
raising sons like saplings toward the sun,
tending their growth while mine waited,
knowing my season would eventually come.
Growth isn’t always upward.
Sometimes it deepens—
roots pushing through resistant soil,
finding nutrients in what others call hardship,
drawing strength from seasons of waiting.
When they left, I didn’t wither.
I discovered I’d been preparing all along—
watching succession in the forest behind my house,
oak giving way to box elder,
understanding that change isn’t loss
but transformation.
At fifty-something I’m finally breaking ground,
learning scientific names for things I’ve always known,
turning observation into expertise,
fieldwork into credentials,
passion into profession.
The younger students grow straight up—
quick, direct, no detours.
I grew wide first, deep,
root systems spreading through
motherhood, community, loss,
survival, resilience, patience.
Now I’m growing toward purpose:
protecting the waterways I’ve watched decline,
using science to defend what I love,
becoming the credentialed voice
for ecosystems that can’t speak for themselves.
Growth isn’t measured in years.
It’s measured in rings—
each hardship a circle of strength,
each setback adding density,
each challenge creating the structure
that holds you upright when storms come.
I’m growing still.
Learning wetland hydrology at the same desk
as students young enough to be my grandchildren.
Studying Environmental Toxicology
to understand the chemicals I’ve watched
wash into the headwaters every spring.
This is growth:
taking everything that made you strong—
the waiting, the sacrifice, the detours—
and finally, finally,
growing toward light.
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