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Underneath the Branches

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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.