What the Oak Tree Said
by Theodora Goss

I have not written a poem
in a long time, she said.
Why not now? said the oak tree.
She sat among its roots, which spread
out over the grass.
In their crevices grew bits of moss,
grass and moss, green on green,
like the oak leaves above, still bright
with spring, and in the branches of the oak
the robins were singing.

She said, but I have not written
a poem in such a long time. I’m not sure
I remember how. The oak tree said,
I am writing poems all the time.
My roots are a poem and the grass is a poem
and the moss is a poem and my leaves are a poem —
look how cleverly I have arranged them along my branches
as they sway in the wind, and the hollow at the bottom
of my trunk, filled with old leaves and darkness,
is a poem, and the sky gray with rain clouds —
and the robins, of course, annoying as they can be,
each of them is a poem.

You are a better writer than me, she said.
Naturally, said the oak.
But try anyway.

(The image is Girl Reading Under an Oak Tree by Winslow Homer.)