I hid in its wet hollowed trunk,
used it for liquid and shelter.
I called it mother.
It stood strong against the sun
with branches spread yards beyond
its bulging womb. I slept
beneath oblong fruit and knew the promise
of food. Somewhere else it was
cold, the air so dry my spirit had split
my skin. No balm could calm it.
I sat and wrote about it
in my room while she shivered
in her tomb-first winter
without her. I remembered
she told me how she wanted to come back
as a tree so I climbed
inside the oddest one,
where I knew I belonged.
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