mother tree

mother tree.

a two thousand year old tree opens
its palms to the hot smoky air
unfurling needles, sucking in carbon. 
roots spread even now
into the soil made of her own barked body
hundreds of years gone.

below, tiny humans splash water on the bone-like roots.
this tree is worth saving they say, scrambling
to keep the embers from the nearby fire
blooming into flame.
she is old, she knows, older than any small beliefs they’ve held and called
ancient.

they are cutting down the young ones surrounding her
clearing out a ring of isolation to
keep her safe. 
(she notices the vibrations through her grieving roots)
she is tired, perhaps, or indifferent, or sacred.  or all of these things,
like a mother, worn down to the knuckle.
when will she fall
what will be the reason?

imagine the sound, echoing around the planet
creating its own wind.
and the quiet that follows such a huge event
like a breath held, and then
the sunlight filtering to the forest floor where it has not touched
for over two thousand years, moving in with indifference, and loving caress.

this tree, now shrouded in smoke
from her burning kin
is no longer as resilient as
the bowing humans would like
is fragile.  now, with urgency
they agree she should be ‘saved’. 
five days ago, fireworks fizzled
in chaotic paths, lit by their kin.

 two thousand miles away, a woman is on
her back, holding her belly gently.  she has recently
been through an ordeal, a scraping
of her womb from the wanted, yet impossible
beginnings of life growing there.  her children shriek nearby
lighting up the neighborhood with their laughter. 
they are her dearest treasures, a ring of adoration
to shield her from isolation.  this one, this lost one, lingers with
a sadness she can’t quite describe, like a breath held. 
she is quiet these days, naiant in the waves of grief,
indifference, exhaustion. 
to her children, she remains the most sacred thing.
she let go of the sapling growth to make room
for the ones already standing
and yet, the smoke rises around them all. 
the fires are spreading, the chaotic paths branching. 
what, she wonders, is ever worth saving
and saving from what inevitable end? 

sparks erupt between her children’s tempers
she goes to them
with all the patience and compassion she’s capable of
and holds them equally, with fragility. 
these ones, these ones
are worth saving.