here I am
When I get lost among the great tide of society,
I go to the trees.
I ask the sycamores where I am,
But I do not have a sylvan tongue.
So the spirit of Mary Oliver laughs,
Translating the kindly condescension of my grandmothers.
They summon me to their roots,
Tuck me into the warm and soft soil,
And cradle me as time washes over us
Like rain building and falling from their leaves.
When my ears are submerged in loam,
I hear their song passing from root to root
Like a chain of held hands squeezing morse code
Like the forgotten paths of dendrite to dendrite in my mind.
What is an old thing on our young planet?
Sharks have been in our world longer than trees.
Sex is brand new in the story of the cosmos,
And gender younger than that.
My question is still en-caul, swimming and raw,
But my place is ancient and held in wisdom,
Like the song of the clownfish or sea turtle,
Green and baking on a yellow shore.
I am here, the line of my being
Reaches out to the frogs, butterflies, and bearded dragons.
They welcome me, sending pulses through the ages,
A new song playing the notes of my ancestors.