At first, it feels
like the earth is breaking.
Each child takes a piece, separates
it from the root. They dart from place to place
until they find a valley or a hill that looks
good to them: a pasture that shelters a few
bright birds, a place with soil that marks
their feet the right way. Once there,
they knead the land into position,
send long branches into the sky. Soon,
leaves form, each one a graceful hand,
similar to mine, yet completely different
in a way that makes the separation
seem astonishing, something to record
so the wind knows, and the earth knows
how I carved two pieces of myself free
until each became a bird, then a tree,
then its own heart, similar to mine,
yet different in a way that the body learns
to understand, in time.