As Above

When white oak seedlings bloom

in my gutters, I leave alone

the hapless new lives, nowhere

 

to laydown roots, nowhere

to go but toward heaven.

 

Still, I worry I might wake

 

one morning and find

tendrils snaked through

 

ceiling vents, to caress my cheek

 

as thanks for the reprieve–

or a reminder of just how

 

far from the sun I dwell.

—Noel Sloboda

Poem pulled from REAL 35.1 Fall/Winter 2011.

 

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