One day
I will 
climb 
to the tippity, toppity, resting place
of the tallest oak I can find

I will dangle
my feet over
a sturdy-enough branch,
squeezing my eyes tightly shut 
as the wind
from a much-needed incoming storm
blows.
I will talk to the dry Earth from up above,
encouraging it to open its heartbeat 
and share with me
the secrets that stay hidden beneath
the rocks
the roots
the ribbons of debris 
left from flooding after a wicked snow.

I will listen until my hips settle
into an unhealthy angle. 

Then, I will climb down
to write the story 
of the loneliest acorn that never did
fall. 

I think this
whenever I am
alone 
on the ground
in the woods.