In the redwood ecosystem, buds for future trees are contained 
            in pods called burls. When the mother is felled, the trauma 
          stimulates the burls growth hormones. The seeds release and 
                  trees sprout around her, creating a circle of daughters.

My daughter has a thing for apostrophes. 
She finds them in unlikely places— 
gazing at my datebook correcting misuse: 
dinner with Miller’s—plural,
approving meet me at Suzie’s—possessive.
I appreciate this investment in punctuation, 
her talents bountiful as the dozens
of cabbage leaves she’s stuffed
for tonight’s family dinner.

Her daily calls, extended invitations, 
leftovers supplied—watching over me 
in my new role as matriarch.
I liken her to a Redwood offspring,
a sentinel daughter standing by 
her mother who has fallen
for one reason or another.