Willows, soft oak.
Bespoke.
Beginning.
Becoming a woman.

I am growing older but so are the trees.
The flowers whisper to the bees.
See how she blossoms?
Bursting at the seams.
Curvaceous fruit.
Defiant and sweet.

I am growing older but so are the trees.
They too bleed,
Autumn leaves on forest floor.
It’s only natural to lose some things
And make room for more.

In a cycle,
Of matrilineal cycles.
Menses and mannerisms.
In season,
Fertile earth lining the womb of
ambition.
I wear this woman’s gentle
body.
Tugging at the sleeves.
Stretch- marked by the weight of dreams.

How her curves fluctuate
With the tides of life.
Sweeping forward,
In each stride.
Her intellect,
Her verve.
Bespoke.
Beginning.
Becoming a woman.

I am growing older but so are the trees.
Let the wrinkles,
Be a sign of good things.
Like the rings encircling the inside of a stump.
This is a marriage to self
And the many selves thereafter.
Skinny or skin deep.
A holy matrimony.

This bark, brittle but breathing.
Aged to excellence.
I remember the trunk of my grandmother’s
body when it lay fallen on the floor,
How from it a forest of children
Emerged.
Let the wrinkles,
Be a sign of good things.
Of multiple lives lived in harmony.
I am growing older but so are the trees.
Let it be an orchestra, A rising symphony.

 

 

 

Photo by Eyoel Kahssay on Unsplash