Hibernaculum

When the sun is no longer
on my face, I put my hand
on the tree bark reminding me
of my mother with her layers
impenetrable but there for me,
nonetheless. Fancy the struggle,
brutish and rough to touch,
circling the success of time,
ringing.  O this tree full of bells
wild. O she too would sing
those last years, moving
through the wood rooms.