
AUGUST 8, 2018, Underneath the Branches
Underneath the branches,
On a gently sloping hill,
The Old Black Oak lives,
Without demands.
Its thick limbs,
Under the weight of years,
Have turned and dipped,
And crept,
Along the earth,
Exploring,
Only to have twisted,
And ascended,
Strongly reaching,
Reaching back up
Towards the sky,
Resilient.
Underneath the branches,
Linens,
Draped in long shadows,
Without an agenda,
Hang freely
Already dry,
Floating,
With hints of wildflower air
Absorbed into their fibers.
Waving,
Above the soft grass,
Cushioning bare feet,
Of a human.
Threads of cloth
Inspire
Remainders
And reminders
Of a summer day,
When walks and swims
Linger like perfume.
Favorite pants,
Worn thin,
Anticipate
A cool summer evening.
A clean,
Crisp pajama top,
White and delicate,
Like Baby’s breath,
Waits patiently
For sleep.
Underneath the branches,
Balanced,
In the arms
Of the Old Black Oak,
Wrinkle free
Of demands,
A clothesline
Hangs.
A white butterfly
Circles.
Respectfully,
Mindful
Of each other.
A graceful duo,
In a charming setting,
Offer comfort.
A white butterfly
Circles effortlessly,
Suggestive
Of a protective presence.
Underneath the branches,
On a gently sloping hill,
The old Black Oak lives,
Reaching upwards
Towards the sky,
Where life lingers,
Uncomplicated.