New Mother Poem

If I were an ash tree, my lungs 
would hollow with insect bore 

holes. Heavy as compost, decay 
would journey from my crown 

to my roots clutched cold
in this ephemeral spring. And you, 

my child ash, render green   
from your shoots. Your roots 

speak from my seed. How 
wet and hungry you are in the ripe 

mud, the day shine. How tall 
will you grow before the insects 

hear the hum of your sweet pith 
and burrow through your heartwood.