An oak looms in the garden,
My effigy of pain,
I’ve not climbed since May’s rain,
When soaked hands slipped, bones broke, skin ripped,
And I ran inside, alone.
Friends on the oak’s limbs beckon,
Enticing me outside.
In my kitchen, I’ll hide.
Wood can’t harass me through paned glass,
Crouched, back to the door, alone.
If I could see the arm that reached to stand me up again
To climb the oak, to rest upon not ground, not under limbs;
If I could see the tree anew,
Not sharp as black but multihued,
With eyes not mine to recognize
Insects and birds, the clouds and sky.
The oak waits in the garden.
I climb its trunk again.
Scent of rain, shouting wind—
Rustling leaves can’t hinder me
From escaping my prison.