by Rosemary Rhodes Royston

I want to be a tree, lovely even without hair
where feathered beings nest in my arms

as I stand like a thumbprint against the gray-blue,
my siblings around me, each unique,

our limbs arteries that dip and arc,
exposed for those who look to see.

And what is not seen, what is buried in the ground
feeds me, keeps me centered, for it matters

that I am present, without ever uttering
anything more than a whisper.

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