The Oaks --

these are solemn oaks, unbending, mournful -- they

grieve like we do, they stretch and harbor

secrets of their own, we

lay there at their base and look into the nest of branches

spiderwebbing the sky as the squirrels race

hellbent through the matrix announcing

sudden prayers of the ground -- we make

friends with a slow discursion, a hesitant intake

of breath and the view of the badlands

in our eyes -- we give over

to circumstance, we

seize our moments as if they were rain, slicing down

and quickly forgotten -- the King lays there

in his sepulcher counting in silence

the days to resurrection -- We

never see him

any more but wait nonetheless if he should arrive --

the diadems or tiaras, the crowns

and festal days, we

have let it all go

to be swallowed in a profound awe

at the heavens above

and the earth below -- we are candles

burning at both ends -- sure

of our lines -- it is here

we succumb . . .

*