A crown of brambles and thorns atop my head:
every thicket and stem a strand of my hair.

Below, held in the lids of knots,

two olive-green stones fitted for eyes,

the drops of sap my tears run dry.
The gnarled bark around: well, that's my face.
The oak beyond: the skin that stretches over my two arms,

each sprig and twig, every one a finger, and my bulky wooden chest.

The roots that coil at the bottom of my trunk

make five toes, two feet. The clumps of earth hanging on
being my shoes, which I lift up and down
as I trudge through thick forest grounds
to tend to every sapling, tree and shrub
mend wounds, give prayer to the dying

dig dirt, sow seeds, cover and water

until fire consumes, axe fells me
or final dawn breaks over the mountains
and signals end of Mother Earth, all her forest creature.