tree story #7: Her Self
I was born a tree,
or so they tell me.
I don't remember.
It was so long ago.
But there was a moment
of greeness, of stretching
upward, flexing my limbs,
uncurling my hands into
leafy sprouts. I watched them
grow, lengthen, broaden
as my body did too.
I remember the seed.
Translucent, double-winged,
borrowed from a dragon-fly,
to let the tiny pod twirl
downward to the open
earth. That's where my
coloring came from --
wood-shaded skin,
peat-brown hair, changeling
eyes flecked with day-moon
blue, mossy green, bronze
lights that sometimes look
like turquoise.
A tree? Yes. With fists full
of air, rain sliding down
my arms, shoulders,
ankles, back to the moist
earth with its startled grasses
upright in their importance.
There were birds that paused
on their journeys, nested
in the crook of my arm,
or on my palm,
sharing their long memories
with their young, with me.
I was born a tree.
Brigit Truex
