Queries for a Quercus Rubra
How many branches can you count, or do you already know?
Would you know your name, if I asked you?
The blinding lights that beam from below, do they keep you from falling asleep?
And do you sleep through the winter, when your leaves have fallen, or just at night?
Do you know how old you are?
Do you remember the day you first broke through the soil?
Do you remember reaching into the open air and sprouting your first leaf?
And that first leaf changing from green to red?
Do you remember your first blade of brown coarse armor?
Do you think of dying, or is that moment too distant to fear?
I stare up at your web of limbs and am curious,
Do you feel empty in half-bloom?
Is it like wearing a tattered shirt on a chilly night?
Or do you know the cold too well to feel it?