When the summer melts itself into cool autumn,
you will find me in the wood;
wrinkled from growth, scarred by storms,
gnarled with age, hearts tattooed into me by lovers.
I have stretched tall, my reach clearing a path to the sky.
Leaves veined with the sugars I’ve made,
they fall so the sun warms you and
the sweet rain flushes you to life.
I stoop and blanket you with all that I have,
for I am all that I can give you.
So siphon nutrients from my roots as long as I stand beside you,
and when I am too heavy with snow
and crack
and fall,
the lichen and fungi will turn me back to earth
where I will continue feeding you for as long as I last.
Remember me, and all that I have done
for you, when someday
you gaze down at your own little sprout
looking to you for everything.
—
Catherine Puma (she/they) is a queer writer with a bachelor’s degree in Environmental Sciences and English and a masters degree in Tropical Marine Ecosystem Management. A member of the Poetry Society of Virginia and the Women’s Aquatic Network, their work has been published in ionosphere, Lit Shark Magazine, and The Blotter Magazine. Their website is www.catherinepumawrites.com.
