By Marianne Brems

 

The elderly Blue Oak

near my front door

stands intact

with bark that hugs her girth

photosynthesis

coursing through her veins

molding the air around her

into a temple for her soul.

 

Were she to crumble and collapse

in a moment,

atmosphere in the shape of a Blue Oak

would fill the vacated space,

matter would slide through

where phloem once was,

substance would morn the loss

of tracheids and vessels,

content to cherish the heartbeat

of this still lasting goddess.

Marianne Brems is a long time writer of textbooks, but also loves to write whimsical poems. She has an MA in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University. Her poems have appeared in Mused, Soft Cartel, The Pangolin Review, Right Hand Pointing, Armarolla, and Foliate Oak. She lives in Northern California.

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