Sometimes I forget
the trees. It’s embarrassing
to admit. Like saying I forget
I have hands. But
days go by when I do not
consider them. And then
some mornings, today,
for instance, the trees,
like an Indian saint
hurling petals at her attendants,
throw their fluffy white catkins
into my hands, my hair,
into my everywhere I look
until everything is baptized
in white cotton down
and I half expect the giant limbs
to pull me into a great gray trunk
and hold me close, whispering
into my ear, in words so quiet
no one else can hear, my daughter,
my daughter, my daughter, my daughter.
Oh my Sister! Thanks for this blessing from Mother Herself. Deb Weller
Trees are such perfect creatures. You capture that compassion at the end. Very lovely. And that line, “Like saying I forget I have hands” is a gem, the comparison of a lifetime. A tree’s lifetime, that is. Happy Solstice:>)
This is one of your best.