My lover is an oak
Cursed by a jealous witch.
Daily I visit him
In the woods behind my house.
This winter the moss
Is thick on his trunk.
I open my arms to his girth,
Press my fingers into
The velvet cool damp.
He whispers of sun and rain and coyote,
Of secretive deer and boastful birds
That loiter in his branches.
I stay and listen
'Til the shadow of the mountain
Enfolds us.
Nights are cold
With only distant Orion
For conversation.
When next I come
He is uncomplaining,
But I know:
Last autumn a raven
Perched on his shoulder to chuckle,
And acorns dropped silently
While I huddled beneath.
--Linda Z., 50
