My mother births a tree.

I am that tree.

She pours her love &
all her love
into the soil
& I
greedily
soak it all in.

She begs the sky for
days of unless sunshine
because she can water me herself.
So no cloud is in sight.

But some days, we do not talk.

We breathe, eat, and sleep in
different rooms.
I, outside. She,
inside.

On those days, clouds
sew up the holes in the sky.

And it rains.

It rains.
It rains.
It rains.

It does not rain forever.

Sooner or later,
the sun comes out from behind its
pocket of grey puffs.

Then, we laugh, we talk, we grow.

I am a tree.

I stand tall,
proud,
with my strong & long roots &
my shooting stem,
growing into a thick trunk.
My smooth branches twist
into gracefully intertwined mazes
& displayed for all to see,
I wear my crown of leaves.

I am born, bred, & built on

love itself —
Love from my mother
herself.