I wrote the first line and thought haiku. Then it sprouted leaves. The last line fell from the oak’s highest branch. Each of its seventeen syllables is an acorn, at the center of which is mist.
I was once like that — a crushed plant on the path, my flowers smiling back.
Then I was an oak,
with a swing tied to my lowest branch,
and a hole where my head
used to be.
Now I am a cloud, pleased to say what I see, and to weep now and then.
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces