I don't remember the name of these trees. But I remember them.
Don't tell me. It's OK.
Never planted one. But they always seem to be familiar. In winter I don't recognize them. When they bloom, I remember them, though not by name.
I began with a soft pink because I had some. I was thinking white, but it is a fleshy pink I picked up and threaded through the needle. Might seem white against a dark color but flesh colored here. Two strands of embroidery floss, a free running stitch over the pen lines which still show in the spaces in between as the thread weaves in and out , appears and disappears. A soft circle has formed hardly seen but strongly felt. Mapping a womb field. Not perfectly.
I don't find words for old memories. I close my eyes. I catch a thought.
