M. Lori Motley

This is from the writing prompt on the Photo Story blog.

My breasts are sagging, but since my husband died years ago, cut down in his prime for fire wood, it hardly matters anymore. My pine is still strong, my sap still running and my leafy finery still thick and green. Of course, that grows anew every year, so its hardly something to boast about.

More frequently of late my mind has turned to summers long past. Way down deep in my woody core I recall the wind pushing me hither and thither as a sapling. I remember watching he who would become my husband sprout from a nut on the forest floor. I remember when men came with machines and took the forest away. We were spared. We were blessed for a long time.

Now, I stand in a park with children and dogs scurrying around my trunk. Lovers come and kiss beneath me, hikers lean against me to stretch their legs. I stand gape-mouthed, breathing out the wood song I heard as a sapling, but no one listens.

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