The yew can live to be over two thousand years old—
a sacred tree that grows large enough for forty people
to stand inside it. Today, its ancient power fits
in a clear plastic bag the size of two fists and it drips
through a clear plastic tube into the chest of my friend.
In three days, she will not want to move. She will not
want to eat. She will wonder if it’s all worth it.
It will last a week. It’s so strange that a plant
that causes death when consumed will help
to save her life. Her hair has been gone for weeks.
But today, on her last day of chemo, I marvel
at how this evergreen lends her new hope, how
she will transmogrify, carrying in her the mystery
that grows in the bark of the paradoxical tree—
when a yew branch touches the ground, it takes root,
sprouts again; is a symbol of death, rebirth, immortality.
