Mother tree





 



Thick bludges hollow eyelets  



You are damp or maybe cold 



I chat in your hip crease 



I might sleep, you might hold 



 



Your young tinkle above 



Crisp claws hold them steady  



Soon you will shake them free 



You tell me they are ready  



 



You tell me stories of when the plane was full 



You say it glowed with leafy chatter 



Young roots would whip the ground  



And brave trunks would split the matter  



 



I lean back in your saddle  



I ask you where they went  



You clench at your old ripples  



Your arms are tired but not yet bent