Self-Portrait as a Winter Tree
Now the sweetness I have made
sinks to the root, where I bed
earth-blanketed. Here I arose;
here I surrender. Winter light
stays low, stroking every scar,
scribing my name, saying how
I shed attachments or hung on
through drought, how I swayed
or was stiff, kept my surface
rough to antler scrape or soft
beneath claw and bill, willing
to harbor den or hive or nest.
Anyone can tell the way I grew
twisted or straight, broken or full.
How I made saplings welcome
under me or choked them out.
And how I held leftover leaves
or let them drop, baring myself,
being what The Patterner requires,
no more: twigs separate or paired
or forked; fruits lavish or few,
fallen or cradled past one season,
hard-husked and bitter or blessing
the tongue. Look, my bud scales,
like tiny wings, close around
promise. You, Maker of Trees,
be merciful to me in my old age.
Kristin Camitta Zimet is a poet, artist, and nature interpreter. Read more.