Quercus Fagaceae

by Heber C. Oak

A picture, an image, a memory:
A new born baby
Boy’s tiny finger
Clutches Mother’s
Pointer finger.

His miniature seers collapse
Quietly dreaming on lap
Of Woman’s love
Gazing on from above
Shallow inhales of small-lunged-huffs.

She blinks to better see
Son: sprouted twig from seed
His lids open wide
Revealing brown-hued cries—
Her own colored eyes.

He groans and he grows
From soils low:
She, an oak tree;
He, but a seed—
She, Madonna; He, her grief.

Their roots deep in dirt spread
Intertwined together in quilted bed:
He, her test;
She, his breast
To which he lays his head in rest.

He sucks and weans and drinks;
He yawns and fades and sleeps
While she sings
And sings and sings
A lullaby to help him dream.

No more than now—a memory:
A mother and her brand new baby
A spitting image of She;

And She, the Oak He lengthens to be.