Patricia Defechereux
The Oak
Trunk: to encounter memory
towards the sun, I reach, catch glimpses in all directions; fingers that missed each other, three amber sorrows.
Scent: early morning
usually he sits against me, disheveled, some torn clothing on his shoulders, smokes a little, disappears.
Bark: turbulent
dewed-breeze mumbles close--thirsty knife scars--I carry eternity, almost inaudibly.
Roots: ripening
I
extracted
omnipotence
deep
in soil
deeper
in dark
stratified
matters
Foliage: bosom
sap eager flows, photons into starch transform
noisy chatterers, heavy with acorns
on my limbs roam
on my limbs conceive.
Blossom: visions
alone in the silent upland pasture
apprehensive in whispers
I watch the witches dance
Fruits: Abyssinian quest
in flesh
I transcribe it all.
Children: when you leave, yellow lichen will adorn me.