There’s something about a
great oak tree in autumn,
it goes so soon naked and
claws at the air,
a gnarled gray hand grasping
blindly toward heaven
to snatch down the sun, or
to rake the sky bare.
They seem so infused with
this desperate longing
for something they can’t
understand, but still crave,
like helpless fish gasping
to death out of water,
like damned souls in Hell
wailing out of the grave,
or like someone falling in
love for the first time:
that well of desire so
sudden appears
and swallows you whole; it’s
a blind fall of longing
a whirlwind of shadows, a
vortex of fears.
I thought as I gaped how I’d
possibly fathom
such mysteries, forbidden
for mortals to know.
But someone scoffed, “Jesus,
it’s only an oak tree
awaiting the first heavy blanket of snow.”
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