redwood (november 3, 21)

i didn’t get to very often
but i liked the feel of your hair between my fingers,
silken but strong, not yet threaded with silver.
i would slip past the delicate stalks with my
fire hydrant nails,
tracing mountains and valleys onto your scalp.

and i loved the long skirts you used to wear,
with hems that would kiss your ankles
shyly because, who wouldn’t be
in the face of your majesty?

(i could only look up
at you, darling redwood,
sometimes shaking sap sweetly
onto my apple cheeks;
i am so lucky
to have watched you put yourself together,
painting with rich cocoa butter and
old-growth confidence.)

now i am a tree too, roots tangled up elsewhere
but i’m always sitting on your bathroom counter,
ears deadened by the forever drone of the hairdryer,
watching you calmly press curls into your silken head.

you smile,
something golden and enormous,
and it catches my skin just right
so that, for a second,
i might be red like you.