Where am I, son?
Can you find me counting in the tree trunk?
Where am I, son?
Can you see your branching from my branching arm?
Where am I, son?
Hidden in the wood that you were cut from and supped from

Shaped by the shaper
The grain of the paper
Where am I, son?

Don't you be foiled by the soil
Under there the body loyal
Read your poem to my bones
But see me somewhere else

Mother that plays game