The tree is full this year.
Hailstorm and early frost
retreated. Branches held
tight to buds and filled
my shade, round and luscious.
Only a mosaic of muted rays peak
through ample arms holding
their inheritance, the DNA
of trees.

She is a dancer, substantial,
arms not bony but full of
life, elegant reaching, touching,
telling their story.
She is big, her stomach round
but throws no shade, only light
unexpected, someone who
is not supposed to be.
DNA proud and strong,
pops and taps consummate
her power.

The tree holds nothing back,
buds twice, maybe thrice,
if storm is strong, returning.
There is no fear, just pure
being, a place embedded in
Earth’s impartiality.

She makes space for those
who have been smudged.
She moves through this sphere,
no grief thrown.
She shines so others
can be.



Author’s Note:

For us.

Arika Armstrong


Roxanne  GayDoyle_Roxane_Gay_Bad_Feminist_850_593.jpg

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