The Mother Tree

A poem for my grandma

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The Mother Tree

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There are seedlings that grow

despite lack of light,

despite little water,

through fallow soil

packed hard with rock.

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These seedlings believe

that if they press on,

they will break through

and breathe in the sunlight,

and somehow, they do.

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I knew a woman like this−

furious, strong, made of thunder.

She fought for the life she created.

She pressed up and on, diamond-hard.

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Can you imagine her rising?

How she stretched her branches

and warmed in the light?

Drank the water?

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How she made a home, grew a family,

in beautiful landscapes?

The horses, the barns, and the owls,

the fields and the pines.

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Can you see her now

as the Mother Tree?

Leaves flashing green,

robin songs in her branches.

Hear the songs she sang back

from the roots that she grew

for herself.

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Now she is spirit,

yet near and far

are her forests of family−

oaks, maples, walnuts,

great and grand saplings.

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Though our lives,

her roots echo on.

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©Angela Bigler 2025

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