She trails her long fronds, shallow,
at the river's edge. Fingertip aware
of loops and whorls of water's flow
playing cradle games across their ends;
not sure for now if she is fully tree,
fully spectral shadow, fully girl.
When she sleeps on river banks she dreams
of toes of roots curled in the clay, of leaves
in photosynthesis, of breeze and sun;
the gentle acid tang of rain on bark,
its sweetness filtered-in through clay and loam
surging, natural, through her phloem veins.
And when she wakes she weaves her life
from willow wands of world, plaits hoop and rib
of observation, complex in her mind.
Lives inside this artificial basketwork and hopes
the chaos of that other world conforms
enough that she is human in their thoughts.
And what is man that thou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that thou visitest him?