To the White Oak Tree

And to my ever-be

Photo by cfreeland8 on Pixabay

As sun flares peering out
of the spreading leaves
of boughs of twigs fondle my skin,
I have found myself seated
by the feet of the white oak tree
cuddled in its rooting arms.
And I am aware of how it made me think of you.
And I have said I’ll never write about you
. . . again.

But here I am sitting by the white oak tree
with this wild early-spring grass
still searching for the fingers
from the pocket of my reticence.
The afternoon of never evergreen
sojourning the peaches of February.
And I am feeling fine
knowing that forever, you will be
an undying poem scarred in me.
A poem that was never mine
but I did love
and will ever-be.