In my new yard, running my hand over the rough bark

Yes, this tree felt like home, like it was meant to be; it felt like art

Like a flat palm into fingers, it grew out

An atrium grew to encase a heart beating loud

That could not be quieted by Dad's hammer hits

Or by the sawdust-coated words exiting his lips:

"Honey, will you pass up the nails?"

A platform arrayed between the live and leafy columns

I would play with my sister, but when alone, I was solemn

I would feel petals sprout from my fresh oiled gear-shift lungs

And for once, feel organic; less machine and more young

I felt more myself there than in my own room 

Than in my mother's gaze, cold like a tomb

Beat against the cobalt bars with pink fists, open the cage

Fly into my tree and sing, the world was my stage

Not a treehouse, but a treehome