Changeling

the tree is white-wreathed in fog, she is
rooted firm, woodpale tentacles
reaching for the grey petticoat edge of
sky above, clots of birdsnests

lodged one here, one there, interrupting
the line of her limbs, that
graceful upraising: see--she
speaks when the wind threads

through her spindle-branches--I
was woman once (whispering) I
loved, and lost, my body
wept great tears, sad flesh

all a-melting til I came to
be rooted here, feet pushing
down into the thick minerals, the
shifting sands, rich darkloam velvet

arms and hand and fingers and
hair all became branches, bark-
thickened, hard ridged rough,
weeping no more, but sighing in
summer at the wind-sweet,
(too brief) embrace