Dendrochronology

Why is there an age

in which we have to stop climbing trees?

Who decided that true unbounded joy should have

an expiration date?

Calloused hands climbing from roots

to canopy,

gnarled as the bark

that hides rings upon rings

Age folding over into itself

we never stop growing.

Or perhaps we just grow back

into ourselves?

Sunlight brushing against red cheeks

Mothers cleaning them off

From light to dirt and

From dirt to light

And back again

I sit as my mother braids my hair

And her mother braids hers

Each strand of hair an intermingled

root

The progeny of all compassion

The center of it all

is hidden in a room draped in red

Walls untorn

Piecing together the seeds of life.

The center of it all,

in fetal position.