Green Peas at Stake

The Oak in My Backyard

Somewhere to the south of the Equator,
on the western slopes of the Andes,
a rare oak tree rustles, chanting its special plea,
when the wind breathes through it,
with the sacred sounds of a reed,
played in a temple, in worship.

Hearing the Southern Wind, the oak in my backyard
--shape-wise a pyramid--
in a ritual few have witnessed,
turning its branches upward
like hands praying,
echoes the chant, which,
through intricate continents,
promises golden wings out of gloom,
blurring the edges between people and creation
and dreams they yet don’t know of.

When that mesmerizing chant touches my ears,
trusting the experience of a moment’s rapture,
inside my silence, I reflect
on any sin I can own up to,
inverted in self-defense,
using any crutch I can pick up from my collection,
and the tree sends down its offerings of hope
to establish roots under my feet,
without asking for repentance,
without any fancy words,
without disbelief,
but through acceptance,
grounded in infinite love.