You might think being a tree is limiting,
But it all depends on where you want to go.

I sit high, skirt bunched around knees,
a handful of men’s shadows flickering like rhinestones
on the ground below.

Digested, whole, clean

I am a descendent of the Redwoods,
there are no transients here.

Meditate to the constant hum that becomes one clear voice,
holds the forest together as one, emanating.

I curve my bones to wrap around this tree,
snake along niches and bumps, not minding the splinters.
Feel what you do.

I am full,
The kind of full that fills you like cement in potholes,
an empty cup that’s been poured over.

Resilient against the wind,
I don’t care about that curve in my spine
or my stout prosthetic trunk.

In the tree world, different is good.

I stand tall, let arms curve to branches,
leaves sprout free.
You see me in the leaves, the bark, the branches,
arborescent.

The sun shines down,
I look up.
Rain showers and I am still,
comfort the sad breeze.

My leaves rattle like layers of cellophane
over rummaged plastic tableware

Centered, I share space with the sky, the shade,
point of land. Scrounge for my share of the sunlight,
stealing from the prudish bushes below.

I commune with the forest.
Discover that the voice,
the hum,
was my own.