Side by side two firm oaks.
Light veers through
in chambers of stained glass
of no cathedral equal,
blue against dense leaves
which have felt centuries
of acorns roll the pasture,
purple hues cover the trunks;
carved initials
of lovers’ deep lines.
Three or four times a year
the sun is so brightly inclined
and their shadows cast silhouettes
of a massive prehistoric oak,
millions of field lifetimes ago
it existed with its forage;
a greenery of a thousand miles,
laid its branches end to end.
Now, only two oaks mark
the last known coal location
and vaguely remember
a larger wooded world in sap
drawn from black fossil forests,
spiralled as threads to a core.
Side by side, two tall oaks,
and when the wind blows
they speak of the beginning.
