The Tree Mother
Elizabeth Schmidt
There is a woman in the woods, I can see her there.
She stands, resolute and hardy to all but the fiercest of storms.
She is young, but ancient, weathered yet supple.
She has the innocence of a baby, and the wisdom of a matriarch;
The creatures of the forest are her own.
The little birds with pointy claws nestle in her bosom,
Covered only with the most velvet garments nature could supply.
They cuddle in her stout, thick arms, and feel at home there.
Unharmed, unafraid, creatures small and sleek,
Crouching in the darkest tangles of her hair,
Scurry about and occasionally peek, from their safe, warm, hideaway.
The Wind, her lover, breezes by, calling her name.
She dances to his whispered song with joy,
Throws up her arms, sways gently side to side,
While her featherweight dress rustles around her,
Adding its own soft percussion to the music.
The Sun, her mother, watches with radiant pride.
Warming her with love and care,
Gentle rains, and nourishing light,
So she may grow as tall and straight,
As her sisters standing around her.
The Moon, her father, soothes with glowing tenderness.
Covers her with a downy blanket of soft light,
Watches over her at night,
When darkness stalks the living lands,
With the icy hand of imminent frost.
Refreshed from her slumber she awakes,
casts off her snowy garment,
Leaving it strewn carelessly on the ground.
Emerging as green and naked,
as the day she was born.