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 up through your stalwart trunk.
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 up through your stalwart trunk.
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