The Red Oak
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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