These old women nest in the trees that grow outside my home. Their faces are carved into the bark, their hair washes down from the branches, their toes are braided at the root; they watch me as I play near the forest, smile with me when I fall, whisper to me to get back up again.
There is no dreaming for them, or so they say; We, the dainty actors, we make the dream.
They only weep once: not during the storm season, or the dry season, or the season when the wind makes the air bitter cold; they cry when we tell them it is time, we must go;
They cry when we grow up, they cry when we move on, they cry when we grow old and die;
Then their leaves fall to rest with our bodies before what is left of us is swallowed up into the roots of their trees to be used again.