The Gum-Tree Womb

_{(for my mother)}


She says her gum-tree hands are not young anymore

and I want to tie their barks
together when she prostrates
to show her, our God has just loved
her longer.

I want to show her how humans scarred
mine because I didn't keep signs up:
"BEWARE, THIS FOREST IS BREATHING."

Just the sight of her warrants a search
for air; her own earth-scent is charged
without need for turbulence. You'll know
it's her

from the sound of her trees growing as loud
as she is quiet. Our chorus is unmistakable
pride because she swept her:
unwalked floor for deceit,
twigs for thorns,
leaves for too much safety--
veins beaten silver in her own image.

You cannot pinpoint her oroboros;
her reflection is three shoots
aiming through a canopy of green
for so much more than just the moon.

She doesn't ask us to look for God
anywhere outside the radius of home;
the gum tree is a gnarled temple
we happened to
every leap year after the end.