: ̗̀➛ The tree that grew from me

As a child, I clung to the whispering trees,

Their bark rough as an old storyteller’s hands.

Let my bones be roots, my breath the wind’s ease.

I patched their wounds with mud and gentle pleas,

They answered softly, with shade that understands.

As a child, I clung to the whispering trees.

Their leaves were stained-glass gold in southern breeze,

Their hush a hymn no mortal reprimands.

Let my bones be roots, my breath the wind’s ease.

I fed them secrets, offered words like keys,

And they kept faith no other heart demands.

As a child, I clung to the whispering trees.

When death shall call, lay me where no one sees,

A seed cradled deep in the earth’s old hands.

Let my bones be roots, my breath the wind’s ease.

So I may rise again through soil and seas,

A sentinel where every child still stands.

As a child, I clung to the whispering trees;

Let my bones be roots, my breath the wind’s ease.

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