May 9th

A wonderful thing, a tree. How it breathes, how it takes in that breath again and changes it to bark, leaves, branches. How it lasts, outlives us all, feels into the ground and binds it to the air. No wonder, in our primitive shamanic states, we cling to it and used is as a pathway, linking one kingdom to the next. Ydrasil. Banyan. The Bleeding Yew. The pollarded trees of a park I knew -their upper parts beheaded with a Stuart queen. Often I imagine nestling in a bole, or digging down and finding myself in a labyrinth of roots and finding there a dark land with reddened sky. May 9th. Your birthday. I remember you and think of trees, and how a small part of you is locked within them, as we all are.