Women of Tree Trunks By Caity-Shea Violette

I am trying not to fall down the rabbit holes in my mind. Tiptoeing through the mud like a ballerina in a minefield, I feel each pathway of darkness tugging at my snags and rips; begging to tear me open and fill my figure with shadows until I am only silhouette.

My urban tree house can keep warm, even in the winter. But increasing winds pierce through the closed curtains and locked doors, until my last candle flickers apologetically and I’ve run out of matches. In search of a light, I braid metaphors and poetry into a rope ladder and climb down to the Women of Tree Trunks. Adorned with cracks and carved names, battle scars that give glimpses into the rings of honor earned with each year they remained standing.

In storms such as these, they transform their hollowed caverns from trauma into temple, offering a shelter where it is safe to close your eyes and rest, for we both weather the same storm. And in times of growth, when uncertain branches delicately reach skyward, the Women of Tree Trunks reach with them. Sticks and twigs interlace to weave a pact of solidarity: Survivors in Arms, Sisters of the Forest, Women of Tree Trunks.

We did not choose to grow in the woods. But our twisted roots outline the foundation upon which we grew into givers of life and light.

Recklessness is not rectified by resilience. But our carved and battered trunks read like reverse road maps; reminders of the distance we have traveled from the places we will never return.

There is no end to our climb, and each new bud writhes in growing pains before opening toward the light. But there are no finish lines in nature, there is only living or not.

And we are Survivors in Arms.
we are Sisters of the Forest.
we are Women of Tree Trunks.

And we live.