On top, an oak—leaves bunched
at the head, a congregation of green
hands in prayer, or maybe just cold.
And I’m thinking about death—
no, I’m thinking about life—
in this tree, its ringed-bark skin.
The ancients were obsessed with death,
but I’m obsessed with this sacred
secret. A leaf on fire, lingering
in the air. Not the kind that burns
you, but the kind that has been
burning ever since the world began.