my dad is the oak tree. my sister, the storm.
the storm it’s breathing
as dew drops sucked
from patient trees
make their journey
upwards meeting
marveled queasy cotton
the oak knows its origins
and why the storm needs
these nutrients. he’ll wait,
gentle, quiet, forgiving
as the storm burns herself
out with nowhere left to go
One thought on "my dad is the oak tree. my sister, the storm."
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I do love this intimate connection with the life force. Bravo!