The Woman Who Looks Like a Tree
Daughter, you’re grown now you should really find someone to love you, respect you; a woman who knows your worth. Daughter are you listening?
Mama, you are my mother and I know it is your duty to worry about me. You won’t rest until you’re certain that the love you have for me, an unconditional love, be not replaced but at least replicated by another. I assure that the news I bring to you will ignite you not with rage but with brightness. For who would’ve ever thought that this other being, this woman would arrive in my life. She is a woman like no other, my, my, tongue stutters, I don’ know where to start. No, I didn’t meet her on some dating website, nor through mutual friends, it was simply one of life’s coincidences. She is known in various places as the woman, who looks like a tree, well because her contour is that of a tree, her long limbs skinny aged branches raised towards the sky like a Russian ballerina. She is my Muse, her visions shoot through her mind onto the canvas like strips of shooting stars. She stirs me, and like a dandelion I lose my shit, can’t control and don’t want to control my emotions.
Her love reminds me of a Granada, pregnant with tiny seeds, packets of wine that bloomed from those little flowers that bloomed on my grandpa’s tree. Remember?
Mama, that is exactly how she is, blooming with love, not seasonal either, she is there for me 24 hrs a day, in me. Although I haven’t relished in her fruit per se I do relish from so many intimacies- the fruits of her labor, her praises. Her praise like her roots, this woman who looks like a tree helps me grow. She lets me know with an honesty as clear and steady as the waters that enrich and nourish, she tells me when I say, do or look good.
She is grounded like a ripe fruit, she grounds me like a weeping willow. She carries the wind in her soul; she makes my soul shiver with her passion. I see her and I really don’t see her for, days, months until I find her again, then I find myself under her umbra- she doesn’t eclipse me she takes me into her world.
The dream continues. Our lips barely graze each other like leaves licking away at your window on a breezy night, with her it’s always a breezy night; laughter, talking and listening. She loves me tender, “if you love them show them,” she told me this one time and time and time after time she shows me. Like a Mistress, she helps me master good habits.
Where did I meet her? I met her there in those cross roads, where paths are passed and crossed over, there in those cross roads, cross she wrote in my skin 2 degrees deep- I think. Ring? No mama she gives me no ring, I AM a ring forever and ever prettified like a Redwood in her trunk. I will be part of her being for eternity, her visions and my words will survive like the constellations to be discovered in ceremonies hosted amongst the tress, surrounded by green, mordant, green, mordant, mort? Strengthens? like the woman who looks like a tree. Mama, trees give shade, shelter, food…they feed us unconditionally. Listen to me little Ms. Hug a Tree. YES! Especially if it looks like the lady that brushes her branches up against me.
Mama, you are my mother and I know it is your duty to worry about me. You won’t rest until you’re certain that the love you have for me, an unconditional love, be not replaced but at least replicated by another. I assure that the news I bring to you will ignite you not with rage but with brightness. For who would’ve ever thought that this other being, this woman would arrive in my life. She is a woman like no other, my, my, tongue stutters, I don’ know where to start. No, I didn’t meet her on some dating website, nor through mutual friends, it was simply one of life’s coincidences. She is known in various places as the woman, who looks like a tree, well because her contour is that of a tree, her long limbs skinny aged branches raised towards the sky like a Russian ballerina. She is my Muse, her visions shoot through her mind onto the canvas like strips of shooting stars. She stirs me, and like a dandelion I lose my shit, can’t control and don’t want to control my emotions.
Her love reminds me of a Granada, pregnant with tiny seeds, packets of wine that bloomed from those little flowers that bloomed on my grandpa’s tree. Remember?
Mama, that is exactly how she is, blooming with love, not seasonal either, she is there for me 24 hrs a day, in me. Although I haven’t relished in her fruit per se I do relish from so many intimacies- the fruits of her labor, her praises. Her praise like her roots, this woman who looks like a tree helps me grow. She lets me know with an honesty as clear and steady as the waters that enrich and nourish, she tells me when I say, do or look good.
She is grounded like a ripe fruit, she grounds me like a weeping willow. She carries the wind in her soul; she makes my soul shiver with her passion. I see her and I really don’t see her for, days, months until I find her again, then I find myself under her umbra- she doesn’t eclipse me she takes me into her world.
The dream continues. Our lips barely graze each other like leaves licking away at your window on a breezy night, with her it’s always a breezy night; laughter, talking and listening. She loves me tender, “if you love them show them,” she told me this one time and time and time after time she shows me. Like a Mistress, she helps me master good habits.
Where did I meet her? I met her there in those cross roads, where paths are passed and crossed over, there in those cross roads, cross she wrote in my skin 2 degrees deep- I think. Ring? No mama she gives me no ring, I AM a ring forever and ever prettified like a Redwood in her trunk. I will be part of her being for eternity, her visions and my words will survive like the constellations to be discovered in ceremonies hosted amongst the tress, surrounded by green, mordant, green, mordant, mort? Strengthens? like the woman who looks like a tree. Mama, trees give shade, shelter, food…they feed us unconditionally. Listen to me little Ms. Hug a Tree. YES! Especially if it looks like the lady that brushes her branches up against me.
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