UNDER OAKS
It comes to me only now
with roots too deep to be
transplanted without shock
that I wear the dust
of where I’ve been
upon my flesh
and in my lungs
already – we are the one clod
that we inhabit and nurture
through drought, flood and time.
It comes to me only now
that we have worked quite well
together, our ebb and flow
allowances as
longtime lovers
learn that they
are part of the same
landscape – this fold of dirt
where the shine from ice on granite
is honeycombed with holes.
It comes to me only now
that time is short for natives
unless you are an oak
making shade and acorns
for the future
adding more than
you take away
from this earth – this tilted plain
of clay and rock – sacred places
under oaks where we can talk.