I used to draw A bare, black, twisted tree. Everywhere. Ancient, scarred. Gnarled branches, Burnt from lightning strikes. Uprooted, peeling bark, hollowed out. It’s late in the spring now. There is new growth. Purple leaves sprouting. Nourishing others With shade and oxygen. Daily acts of renewal. The roots are strong now. What matters to me. Learning, teaching, Love, creativity Recovery, health. The trunk is thick. Sturdy. Solid. My unchanging self. The beehive. Connections. My partner. My tribe. My people. A phoenix and an iguana Hang out in the branches. A bird of transformation Risen from the ashes. Who stood up From the shitty motel room floor And claimed her power. The iguana, myself. 14 years old. From my dream. It was emaciated, neglected. Now it’s healthier, but still healing. Brilliant blue butterflies Emerge from the bark, Transformed. I reclaim nature From the man who stole it. In the sky, Pink and lavender clouds. Chickenland. The world of Popcorn And Chicken Little. My inner child. There is a winding path Fading into the distance. What’s next? Fruit? More storms? Mycelium? I’m ready for anything. And so the tree stands, A story of survival Broken and whole A million purple leaves, And a brilliant purple Phoenix Forged in flames.