Did you know?

The tree certainly couldn't have relayed the message to you.
You named it a wise old woman:
tender, battered, sexual.

It seems you knew.

Her scars––the tree's––were so similar to yours.
And she told them to you. In colors, in seasons, in falling branches.
In her quaking––unsure if it was applause or fear-trembling.

And yet you weren't aware she was you.

You created her story, her labia and breasts, tears and dance moves and 
sacred femininity. 
She was truly old though––and strong.
You didn't make those up. Those were simple observations.