You Don't Decide If I Get To Be Winter

They hate that we stop clinging, try to surgically glue us back to branches that are no longer our home

We fall, provoking, for maidens and mothers are coming and we must cede, reach for destined roots, furrow down like our etchings this time round

Our bones are thin whispers at every trunk storing our emerging crone song

We are crushed as our  wrinkles are blown up, gushing wisdom in ruby, copper and gold

We are pushed into mounds echoing every impersonal violence to our subjected younger bodies

Well, witch please

I demand my wrinkles be removed from the firing line of instant disposal, be allowed to mark out some path for some sisters if they want it

and IF they want it