Betrayed by the wind, they slash - a tight whip in a primal hand; stirring forgotten feelings, drooping to the ground with laden gilt of dew - unrepentant in their heaviness.
Each branch a child climbing, running, curling back to maternal care. A growing teenager becomes a springboard for a squirrel; the more mature, a nest for a screeching raptor.
These arms that reach upward towards the blue hide freeloaders in pockets and burrows made by woodpeckers, Raccoons know which branch will hold, which will let go.
Naked, reaching towards me with skeletal fingers like long buried dead covered with brown and gray age spots, cankerous black hiding precious tender green to come in spring light; the arrival of newborns waiting in shadows of twisted gnarls.
Reverent boughs beg forgiveness of the ancient earth; she holds them in her womb and whispers, my children: Grow tall, bend and dosey doe in the dance that is yours.
Each of you dearly loved, creak your names as one.
- Sarah Love
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