In her mossy arms again…

I had thought I would stop in some sunlit spot the midst of my walk to sit and to write, but instead I was called off the trail into the sundappled shadowlands, into the arms of a mothering tree.

She pulled me up into her with moss coated strength and then, there I was, in her embrace, embracing her. And there I am still.

For a long time I just sat in her, legs straddling her joint of trunk and limb, one know pressing direct between my breasts, another right into the space between my eyes.

Songbirds with me in this moment, and the rushing waters down below.

This is where I find myself in this moment that has found me.

She calls me to her again and again–and again and again i am hers.

That is the trunk, that is where the moss wants to grow. From that truth strong limbs extend in every direction seeking the light, bearing flowers and fruit. I am hers, I have always been hers…both an empty vessel to be filled with the nectar of her profusion and the liquid itself, which enters her throat to feed the song that is this tree I am held by and the birds that are singing me and the thick smell of ripe and rot in the air.

Today I offer my carefully cultivated silence to be the space between her notes–I would be the soft place she rests after long arduous labors continually birthing the world.

I stretch myself against this trunk, this limb and breath her into me, filled and empty once more.