They hate that we stop clinging, try to surgically glue us back to branches that are no longer our home
We fall, provoking, for maidens and mothers are coming and we must cede, reach for destined roots, furrow down like our etchings this time round
Our bones are thin whispers at every trunk storing our emerging crone song. We are crushed as our wrinkles are blown up, gushing wisdom in ruby, copper and gold
We are pushed into mounds echoing every impersonal violence to our subjected younger bodies
Well, witch please
I demand my wrinkles be removed from the firing line of instant disposal, be allowed to mark out some path for some sisters IF they want it
and if they want it
ONLY