She removes the soles of her feet, 
skewers them on wrought iron rods
from the abandoned carriage house gate,
roasts them over the firepit to glowing honeycombs.

Their wrinkled maps, turned veiny rivulets, 
spill lava onto the greying coals; 
tiny screaming memory passengers, arms skyward
log flume to their cremations.

A rain cloud pours its offering onto the grave.
Her exposed roots plug into the scorched circle, 
she straightens her trunk and branches, 
xylems conduct energy from Earth’s core.

No silt settles in her organs;
only moving water, ancient minerals, moss-filtered air.
Her fronds unfurl slowly,
cupping warm rain offerings toward the sun.