Ojibwe Tree

I was born in a country where the map is wide,

but my people are few.

The forest is full but I’m hidden in crown shyness.

My limbs are untouched.

Sap seeps and willows weep,

Surrendering to ecological succession.

I, as a leaf, do not know which tree I fell from.

Growth rings and groove lines leading to forgotten paths.

Nothing but a seed far from the hands who planted it.

My roots speak languages that were nearly cut from the tongue,

but still hum underground.

And I cannot speak of branches without speaking of the ones that fell.

I continue to grow in a clearing I did not choose.

Roots seek water whether or not they remember the river.

The wind roars through the leaves, root to crown, carrying stories upward,

and bringing hope back down.

Soil softens, the damage was done.

A second forest is rising, strongly reaching towards the sun.