The winter comes, I feel it, without anticipation.
I know it through my settling earthbound roots.
I know not the animal dread of cold and dark.
My boughs sculptured by summer’s passage to lift my leaves sunwards.
Now I have let them drop to earth, to feed my community the soil.
The soil my home. The earth, the spinning earth.
I draw myself in and wait without anticipation, under the frosted fog.
Playing out my destiny in the eternal moment.
I am the Elder Mother, spirit made tree.
My carefully crafted medicine is of myself, for myself.
I know not the animal dread of age and death.
The vulnerable robin, the clever striving human, they come to me needing nourishment.
It pleases me to give but not to court the animal demon, greed.
They may take of me, by measure, with gratitude.
For I am the Elder Mother, spirit made tree, in cold earth, which will turn warm again.