By Zinnia Hansen, 17, Port Townsend, WA
A tree has blood, thick blood
that fills its cold fractals with slow warmth.
We watch the rain fall.
And tenderly, I brush the water from my eyes.
At the base of my stomach,
is dirt that tastes like the moon.
They planted a fairytale in my belly.
And sang me to sleep until the seed grew into a dream.
My fingers smell like sticky sap and old firewood.
To build a flame is to watch the leaves fall.
You are only a stump now,
Grandma Tree.
I climbed your branches,
I bent you into human shape.
I sang you to sleep.
I want you to hold me,
because the rain has come again.
I want to believe in your blood,
in the fairytale coursing through your trunk.[Art opposite page: By Alden Bond, 13, Middlesex, VT – Fractal Tree]
A tree has blood, thick blood
that fills its cold fractals with slow warmth.
We watch the rain fall.
And tenderly, I brush the water from my eyes.
At the base of my stomach,
is dirt that tastes like the moon.
They planted a fairytale in my belly.
And sang me to sleep until the seed grew into a dream.
My fingers smell like sticky sap and old firewood.
To build a flame is to watch the leaves fall.
You are only a stump now,
Grandma Tree.
I climbed your branches,
I bent you into human shape.
I sang you to sleep.
I want you to hold me,
because the rain has come again.
I want to believe in your blood,
in the fairytale coursing through your trunk.[Art opposite page: By Alden Bond, 13, Middlesex, VT – Fractal Tree]
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