It’s a young slim tree. The leaves are oval, and most of them hang in pairs, but not all. The wood is very hard. The trunk is slightly wrinkled in places. Small ants are scurrying up and down. There are eyes along the trunk, where branches have grown and then fallen off. I see a face with eyes. It’s the watchful tree.
The mamoeiro tree is as you enter, marking arrival. It has a smooth light brown straight trunk, with leaves radiating from the top. The bulbous fruit hang, full, ripening in the sun. I am struck by the markings on the trunk of the tree. There are scars all the way up from the branches that have been shed as it has grown. Shadows of butterflies imprinted. Scars that mark growth, tranformation. And the shape of lips, calling us to speak out to make that transformation happen. The butterfly calling tree.