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.
