the woods are home
and i am a pine,
disintegrated and reborn
in the shape of a girl.
“come home,” they say—
i already am, at rest in
the trunk of an oak.
closer to the source of
my atoms than i have
ever been. each tree
has a different voice—
some high, some low,
some smooth, some
rhythmic, all with the
cadence of a lullaby.
“you are home, you
are home,” they say,
and all the leaves rustle
in the wind and slowly,
slowly, i fragment,
fracture, splinter,
shatter—into something
tall, sturdy, reaching to
the sky, reaching to the
soil, reaching through the
earth. the woods
are home and i am
a pine, disintegrated
in the shape of a girl
and reborn into the
arms of the forest.