I am the trees, am the bodily matter of my son, the god-man who climbed one, died, and came down. I’m the dirt of his tomb, the stone of its door. And yours—your source for void and form, the matrices and wombs eternally making you: I’m your mater, your prima materia, your Karmic welcome mat. I’m your permanent pied-à-terre, I’m your latte, your honey, your snack. Sweet babies, you rip my boreal skin to get at my oil sands. Fly over the Arctic, see my extraction scars, or over my equatorial rain forests, hacked— two of my many broken hearts. Bad children, you have set me blazing, and now I burn you. As your mom-goddess, your life-gifter, I can renew, or I can retract. Respect me as if it were your final vital act.