Dark
and bare
and somehow
larger! than rightly
seems plausible
ancient
oak tree—could it be you?
or rather—
your stiff and
tightwound thousands
of boney slate gray
colored fingers—so
tired! and spread
far and looking so desperate-
ly
starving—
for the still-
absent honeyed
blush of our only
reluctant
pale yellow star—?
Could it rest
alone
on them?
straining—so hard
to hold
up this massive
and pressing-
down
hard
upon the landscape—
iron-
colored April sky?
