What the Roots Remember

the stones
lean in
to hear my name

as I pass.

I press my palm
to the bark,
feeling—

the slow heartbeat:
of something
older than grief.

toeing a root
that leads back
to the first version:

the one
who could hear—

the hum:
beneath the ivy.

the one
who could trust

the earth:
before

she trusted
her own voice.

but growth asks for more—

branches do not apologize
for wanting the sky.

I rise—

spine learning the long,
aching language
of reaching.

I stretch—

towards the future
that keeps
calling my name

in wind-borne syllables.

a promise:
you were made to rise
from what rooted you.

I do not
shed my past.

I lift it—

a thousand rings
spiraled into bone:

a map etched
in ash and bark

becoming.

this is how—
a life grows:

rooted in what was,
reaching for what could be—

branch by trembling branch,
toward the light

that finally feels
like home.