I am a tree

I am a tree.
No really, I am!
I was small
then I grew
thanks to dirt.

Little me woke up in the summer to the sweet sound of happy birds,
just like tree.
She danced and sang and made make-believe  on top of the soil,
or sometimes digging into it.
She planted her big toe into the worn out spot under the rope swing
                                                                   and used it to swirl and twirl
                                                                                        and spin out to black.
She never wore shoes.
She did not fear bees.
She put black feet in the tub at night and watched the water darken then slip away with the day.
Soil and water.
Just like a tree.

I am a tree.
Seriously.
I was smaller
then I grew
because of sun.

Littler me drank in sunlight like life giving water, like someone dying  of thirst.
She closed her eyes,
                               turned her face toward the sun,
                                                       her arms out above her head,
                                                                            fingers weaving through sun beams.
She stayed there, swaying, until the sun warmed her very bones, until sweat formed in the small of her back.
The sun gave her color and life and dreams and ideas.
She blossomed.
Then she got out the hose to let it rain on her, to cool down.
Sun and water.
Just like a tree.

I am a tree.
Unfortunately.
Because trees live through winter too.

At the height of their beauty,
                                            when they are like fire in the skies,
the world goes cold.
So do I.
I lose my color and dreams, I lose a little of myself.
The earth hardens, the sun fades.
We are so cold, the trees and me.
Make it through the bleak bitterness,
we can make it until Spring!
Because our roots go deep.
Because we are well established.
Because the son has shown us who we are and we remember.