anchor tree

In deep morning
still dark and cool
I place my hand on my anchor tree.

My fragile skin rubs the rough bark
while my soul trickles from skin to wood
and slides down into the roots
where it kisses the soil.
I am planted there with that anchor tree;
It stands in my back yard,
It stood before there was a back yard.
It remembers, so I remember.
We share mysteries from beneath the surface,
Under the damp grass.
And as the breeze plays with our limbs,
We dance.