I exercise in front of our west facing windows.
Through one window a pair
of oak trees stand on top of a hill.
The trees say I must speak for them.
When California burned and smoked the air,
I imagined them.
In rain clear air,
we look one to the other.
Their roots grip the hill.
I try to model them,
sink my burning feet into the floor.
“Notice,” they say,
“we don’t bend or break.
Our tops rounded we cling
to the earth.”
Pushing down on the walker
I use for parallel bars,
I raise myself on my toes.
I pretend I have roots sinking.
For one brief moment, I am straight
Listening to oak wisdom,
I breathe into the coming day.
Janice DeRuiter Eskridge © 2018