I. The oak trees are therapists,
surely knowing my affliction
as sure as they know the wind blows east.
The old dangling branches resembles neurons
twisting and reaching for the open sky.

II. An ancient whisper speaks in the breeze
from leaf to leaf,
a forgotten language of love.
Even the strongest tree has a taste for vulnerability,
like hummingbirds buzzing in place
attacking the wounds in the bark that oozes sap.
I place my hand on the stubborn flesh
caressing as a chiropractor does the spine

III. I wish I could grow like an idle tree,
into the soil where dark things are grown to be loved,
near a cemetery,
or somewhere high up
in between the shadows
or the burning sun.
I will grow here
and grow forever,
singing my own healing song


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