8-13-01

I had climbed through her branches

searching out an answer

when from the highest limb I fell

deep into the earth through her trunk

crone-finger roots my womb

digging tender spikes of pain

into my flesh

cradling, nurturing, disguising

Hurtling through change

A cry, a gasp, pine sap

streams golden from the bole

of my mother, the tree

I am reborn

And unsure of footing or how to voice

the wonder of my father

lifting me high in his hands—

high enough to touch the sun,

to finger his fine antlers—

and his shouting clearly,

“Here is my daughter!”