Hundred years ago
mama oak stood alone
in the summer
of a big flat wasteland
A someone
cut her knees
roughed her into boards
there chunked a human birthplace
Right beside mama
acorn grew
until the sharp summer sun
never pierced a window
yet he blocked not a stream
of genial light
in the razor air
of a January morn
Long as she stands so will he
as the tree
watches over
the house
I always had that problem of looking out the window. I was kicked out of Algebra II in the 10th
grade for it. A few decades later, my cube has a view of a pine that gets irritated at the lightest
of breezes. There are passionate sunsets in the winter. And a constant flux of cars overtop of 90% of
the asphalt in the valley. They pay me to look out this window now. Never underestimate how far your
weaknesses will take you. Sometimes I look out other windows. I call that poetry.
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