What sent you to bend under the weight
of your arms? Always reaching for alluvium.
It’s not that you’re unwanted, only
unrecognizable uncared for.
Your promised greens
plummet into deep purple,
they flood with color, clots
clinging on your white-molded boughs
which break to my touch. Stalled vehicle,
dark stain on the linen ochres of sky
cut by planes, satellites–-those mechanical genies.
Where is your herald of flowers?
Why should the caterpillars love you more
than this oak, uncrippled and not fraught?
The crickets chirp in the shade of your trunk’s tall grasses
where it is always night; continually
they string their bows to magnify your silence.
--Leigh Anne Hornfeldt