I am your tree, she said.
Your arms fly through the sky, I said, like butterflies above this ocean of city, of car horns, of motors, of sorrow and wind. You live among the multitude.
I am our tree, she said. I extend my arms made of butterfly wings, sea feathers, silk hands, oceans of sorrow-- I reach out to you, grow within you. Call me by all my names: Selma, Silvia, Alda, light of day. You may touch my leaves that heal the pain of time so you may always live by the rivers' edge.
--Lorena Wolfman © 2011