Mother Tree

My mother is human.

She has bent around trauma

like a tree grows around a barbed wire fence,

folding the spikes into its skin.

She has twisted

towards the openings in her world where

she can feel some loving sun on her leaves, and

shriveled where infected with insecurity or abuse.

The result is a living sculpture,

beautiful and mercurial,

formed in love and pain.

If you know which limbs are strong,

you can navigate her arms and nestle against her.

I went away too long I think.

When I returned to climb for comfort

rotted branches betrayed me

so I fell


and broke my heart.


HS 8 – 8 -2016



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