The tree, the forest, the tree by hil hoover

Was it curiosity, fascination, or maybe 

even comfort that settled in your bones 

when you first learned that 

a forest can be a single tree 

stretching out for miles 

reaching out into the earth 

with root systems more awe-inspiring 

than trunk or leaf, bark or long limbs 

reaching into the sky? 

Did you smile to think of me? 

Imagine me a kindly neighbor, 

uncle or grandparent to the whole 

community, 

playmate and playground and 

secret place 

all at once? 

Maybe you even visited, 

walked between my many bodies

and dreamed of what a forest 

might dream,

what a root system might babble 

to itself in the dark? 

We are beautiful after all. 

And useful, with our bough umbrellas 

and DIY air filtration systems, 

our many textures

our flickering over the soft 

layer of death and decay and

possibility and renewal, 

our cycles and cycles and 

cycles. 

I am beautiful. 

I hope the way I arched above you

felt like a womb, a cradle, a nest,

a place to rest your head 

and heart, 

because when you love me, 

think of me with whimsy 

and fondness, 

this all goes so much easier. 

Rest a little while longer, 

you darling fleshy doll, 

and pay no mind as my roots 

grow under your roads, your cities, 

your own two feet, 

until there is only me, only myself, 

only leaf and bark, root and branch, 

and a new layer of bloody soil 

for my next season.