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

and squirrels.

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.