Connected
I am an old oak tree. Witches danced
under my branches for balance and strength.
There is a different type of movement
this morning near my rough bark
as bronze leaves turn brittle and fall
from a great height. A child stumbles
holding a rake too large and heavy.
Attempts to gather parts of me in crisp
air swirls. She sings of birds in a pie.
The child has black, long hair.
Wears a thick orange coat with navy
velvet trim. She runs and jumps high
as she can into a mountain of my leaves.
Crunch. Thud. A landslide shifts
amidst her screams of delight.
She tries to hide from her grandfather
who pretends to be angry. You are making
more of a mess than helping, he says.
She giggles. She will be overseas
when he dies. Shedding tears
on a crowded bus leaning on the window.
Patient over time, I watch the growth
and talents of this woman. Remembering
her autumn ritual, my leaves crisp again
and again, with destiny recorded in my rings.
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