I am in my childhood home

At the door, a man

He has left truck-sized books in my driveway

He says

There are some trees he needs inside

I tell him I’ve no idea

Of what he speaks,

But I trust him

And let him in

.

We travel into the bedroom of my youth

Which shapeshifted regularly

As both my mother’s and my own

Today

It is mine

.

The man says there are trees

Inside a box

And points in through the threshold

I turn the corner and

Before me, lying beside the bed

Tall, thin, white trunks

Bark peeling fragile

I know them somehow

They lay waiting

.

I’m surprised they are here

And how they can possibly fit into this small cage

Such old, ancestral beauty

And I watch as the man

Walks to them, gently

And begins to break them down

Twisting, breaking

.

He shows me his muscles as he does this

And I get the sense

That the overwhelming force

Of this ancient Birch mother

Holds the hidden gifts

Of all the mothers who couldn’t be seen

.

I get the sense, that there’s a destruction

Yet also creation going down

That these trees are ready

To be revealed

To be processed

To be written upon, with

To be seen

And that this man

He as me

Shows me that there is strength enough

To accomplish this gargantuan task

.

Breaking it down

Verbalizing the unspoken

That was once burned for

This something

Long seemingly dead

Coming back to life

Through me

Risking to be seen

By the General

.

These smaller, digestible chunks

Of Her Celtic, knowing body

She of protection

First letter, magick

And renewal

In my room

In my mother’s room

In my grandmother’s room

Her blood

In my hand

Tearing

Through the wood that writes me

.

Instead of overwhelming

Instead of nauseating

Instead of terrifying

These beautiful pieces

These birch fibers woven

With hidden, suppressed, traumatized

Dark/light giftings

.

They

Are finally ready to be shared