Like entering a tomb

of honeycomb

or bone,

there is strength

in the air.

Though, to the eye it appears

brittle, you cannot break this

so easily.

She stands

in this shell


welcoming me.

Our hexagon

shapes, opening borders,

merge as one—a shell-like fabric

so delicate, it can be woven.

Her roots are worn

like a crown:

a tree in reverse,

a birth in reverse,

a returning to the womb

of the Sacred Mother.

Her trunk stands tall

as a doorway. Her feet,

branches that blossom

upon each step, the seeds

of her mission.

Like dandelions,

there is no way to tell

where they will land

once the wind has come

to whisk them down river.

So, she waits

for spring,

of which there are endless,

until one flower rises

tall above the rest,

to become the eyes

through which her world is birthed.

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