We close the circle
our fingertips touch.

We are the seed
the tight-curled tip of fern
the last branch.

We sing the names of generations.
Each note of sorrow.
Each verse of endurance.

There is no pain
in ending here –
arms around
the tree that bore us.

Hands touching
closing the circle.

We are the blossom
and the fruit.

(written years ago – recognising the reality of being the last in one branch of the family)