The Baobab

The entire village circling it cannot encompass it.
Tree of life. Temple to the dead. The baobab.
The entire village circling it cannot encompass it.
Giant trunk. Short branches. A quiet prayer for rain.
But the rains do not come.

A woman in blue, a black woman in blue,
stands opposite the tree—
she alone knows all the spells for rain,
but tells no one.

The sun is falling into the bowels of the earth.
Earth is sun, sun earth, and all will be consumed by thirst.
The giant baobab alone defies the heat,
quiet in its prayer for rain.
But the rains do not come.

Any moment, you think, it will crash down, drought knocking at its last vein,
when suddenly it stands erect,
trembling from its very root,
enraged against nature by the magic of the woman in blue.
It draws up its juices
and, its gaze growing brighter,
sprouts leaves, is sprouting one leaf after another . . .
Green weeping and a prayer for rain.
But the rains do not come.

The entire village circling it cannot encompass it.
Tree of life. Temple of the dead. Patrimony.