Little Trees

For months
upon arrival
I passed.
Resisting the urge
to reach out
or look up.

As if,
a blink would
snap a branch or
a stare would
kindle a fire.

When once
rebelling eyes
gazed upward,
they found
sweet apple buds
sleeping tight.

These eyes
holding them
as my own as.
Each sunrise
reclaiming their
presence.

I had just begun
to know them
when
bare branches
returned.

This is the
morning
for mothers.

Possessing so
intimately
the power of
production
and
the pain of
letting go.