The Red Oak

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Amit Majmudar

The Red Oak

 

      All I recall of my life as an oak—
      I shot up so abruptly—was smoke,
      a leaf puff, an instantly sentient green.
      Chained to my roots, the cloud of me rained
      (though more of me I loathed to make)
      my teardrop acorns, my raindrop aches
      in a patter, a . . .
      . . . . . . .
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