Sometimes I must do nothing.
Not wash the sheets,
not vacuum, just
stare into the generosity
of the Red Oak,
whose loving indifference
is achingly intimate.
Her branches gnarled,
hidden by green plumes
desiring sun, wanting time
to let be.
What does she see of me
thumbing a poem
on a glass box to join
the unfinished poems
I leave in my wake?
The tree smiles,
today we are one,
I in my green,
you with a period
at the end of your poem.