Zelda

Zelda stands tall in the jungle,

an Amazonian matron with secrets stitched in bark,

amazingly steadfast,

with a gray disposition — aged and wise,

yet never brittle.

To the untrained eye,

she’s just a tree —

a stillness in the midst of wild motion,

a post for parrots,

a hammock for howlers.

But Zelda wears masks.

One for each mood,

and one for each beast that calls her “home.”

A mossy veil when the sun is shy,

a crown of orchids when the moon walks by.

A carnival of vines draping her limbs,

a braided bark corset to hold in her sighs.

She wears a smile of blossoms in spring

and frowns with curling leaves in dry spells.

She is mistress of illusion,

queen of quiet theater —

hiding her heartbreak in amber sap

and wrapping old regrets in epiphytes.

Inviting strangers,

she makes room for all:

the slithering secrets of snakes,

the tentative paws of tree frogs,

the daring talons of hawks that trust her spine.

She is mother, fortress, and friend,

a stitched patchwork of all the lives she’s held.

Each groove in her trunk

is a memory —

some whispered in the hush of twilight,

others groaned out during the thunder’s reign.

At her feet, the green fleecy ferns

still writhe upward like leggings —

faithful adornments that dress her

for the eyes of the forest.

But beneath her roots —

ah, beneath!

There lies her heart,

buried deep in the cool dark,

where dreams turn to soil

and old songs echo in worm trails.

She hides letters carved in another tongue,

names once sung by wanderers who never left.

A cache of old firefly bones

and promises left by children

who thought she couldn’t hear.

And before the rains come,

Zelda changes again —

into her blue dress of dewdrops,

her silver earrings of mist,

her rhythm aligned to the sky’s low drum.

She longs to dance.

She remembers waltzes with the wind,

pirouettes with palms,

slow spins in the arms of monsoons.

But the treehouse of her torso is full —

her guests doze under her arms,

safe in her lullaby hum.

So she sheds her mask of dancer

and dons the browns of duty again.

In the tropics,

she waits, always —

for a break in the caretaking,

for a single invitation,

to lose herself

in the rain.