my mother

an ever changing constant.

carrying seeds of knowledge,

thick skin, and warm heart.

she withstood the fires

of a painful life.

protecting her family

in the boughs of her arms.

but constants

don’t exist within mortality.

when the wind changes,

and the ground dries,

the jack comes to harvest.

we are left

with roots and a stump.

or perhaps a promise

to grow again.

so even now

when she is gone,

she still surrounds me.

like the coniferous forest

that hides my heart.

evergreen.