As the oak croaks within the imminent space in the ground,
the branches creep through what is left of a swing,
broken down by the wind
I sit under its obscure shade,
breathing in the pheromones of seasons
while digging my toes in the orange earth,
I wonder if it knows.
Full of green, yellow, red,
dry or with a white coat in winter,
the tree stretches its fingers to filter warmth
through the vein of my brain,
making me feel less lonely,
as if its soul is my home.