I'm searching for you, mother in the roots that ground my feet and in the arbor of my fingers reaching up into your light. Surely, it must be you in the core of my twisting trunk that has turned this way and that in yearning? I search for you, mother but only find ghosts I left behind; caught in the wake of my hungry quest they join me in my searching. Some, with empty eyes and some with frozen hearts, but all with lithe and ready limbs aflame and burning. I search for yo

Today I'm made of glass, and a small crack is creeping slowly up from one hand towards the base of my neck. When it...