ÁRBOL

I touch your skin

without consent,

I cross the bridge of your back 

and crack your spine to cut paths.

I lay awake and dream 

on a bed supported by your limbs. 

I sever your corpse for light and warmth.

I find retreat under the extension 

of your arms 

and the canopy of your hands.

I gather food from the ovaries of your flowers

and nourish myself with the seeds of your fruit. 

I tread over your roots

with thought and wonder,

interrupting conversation with your mother,

your brother

and neighbor.

My elder, 

an imperishable lineage

confirmed by the lines 

of Darwinian.

The messenger of wind.

The resting point of flight and slither.

The perch for those who pounce.

The hollow home 

for eyes to vigil.

You are omnipotent,

body of greatness.

Your Burled eyes 

are the holders of 

the beginning of time.

Your ash,

the remnant

 to the end of life.

Your secrets are many 

and mine are folded in the pages 

you’ve given me. 

So I write, 

with gratitude 

your meaning of life.