the snakes of soil coil up my limbs, squeezing my bark skin as pliant, willing flesh. epidermis chipping, speckles of glittering gold flying away as embers. this cocoon still churns with light, still blooming with a yearning hope, soft with burning youth. rooted mortal memories dancing in the moonlight, chasing a future yet to be birthed. Is my wood like butter, aged like redwood? What fragments burrow underneath me and can the forest practice the rights? exorcise the grime?