Red Oak, for such a long time I have stared into you;
your bark, your rows & lines & years, your scales
& leaves that cracombine the lines .ck like static from a long forgotten TV,
settling into open space & breathing out truths.
I love you as you are;
the way you painted a squirrel into a knot on your body;
how you drew him like a fertility goddess, plump with birdseed
just to tell the world squirrels belong. The way you punctured
a water pipe to provide a stage lit with the season’s last
fireflies for a chorus of foraging frogs. The way your leaves
feel for my hand without reaching too far.
You are not my home. You are the home creating,
protecting; providing acorns, advice, blankets
for cold nights; spreading a warm bed
for any wayward bumblebee or ladybug,
a respite for weary songbirds & nomadic red dragonflies.
Red Oak, for such a long time I have stared into you;
your roots, your branches and lungs, your fur
& leaves that rise and fall like a child’s arms swinging.
I need you as you were; the way you flinched silently
when nails were driven into your back, careful
not to wake the tiny brown bats napping before their nightly hunt,
swooping through the only streetlight in the cul-de-sac.
The way you waved me over to you, welcoming me
while sweet ants flow into the pockets of my birdseed sweater.
You are not my mother, but you sing through Serj
to proclaim the truth that I am your child; I burrow
out of hard ground, sleepy and starving for sunlight.
My voice chokes through dusted petals but says nothing at all.
The soft nod of your crown breathes assurance, I understand.
~~
L.L. Hannah is a U.S. based writer and the 2025 recipient of the UAH Outstanding Creative Writing Award for Poetry. She is currently completing an MA in English and is working on her first full-length poetry manuscript.
