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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 on a clothesline

Hang in long shadows,

Without an agenda,

Ordinary clothes,

Already dry,

From earlier in the day,

Hanging freely,

With hints of wildflower air

Absorbed into their fibers. 

Above the soft grass,

Beneath the bare feet,

Of a human,

Ordinary clothes,

Absorbing,

The remainders 

And reminders

Of a summer day,

When walks and swims 

Become sacred.

Favorite pants, 

Softened,

Worn thin, 

Anticipating,

A cool summer evening.

A clean, crisp 

pajama top,

White and delicate,

Like Baby’s breath,

Waits patiently 

For sleep.

 

Underneath the branches,

Fully Embraced, 

Natural surroundings,

And summer sounds,

Unite

To create symphonies, 

As the winds 

Play the chimes,

In oneness,

With the vibrating

chorus of cicadas,

And the crows 

Call out,

From across the field,

Un-mowed,

Wildly beautiful, 

Changing, cooperating,

As the Red Barron Circles 

Towards the sky

Moving,

Upwards.

 

Underneath the branches,

Balanced,

In the arms

Of the Old Black Oak,

Wrinkle free

Of demands, 

An experienced tree 

Holds a clothesline

That hangs lightly.

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.