to sit under an oak
is to learn how a body receives
the weather without keeping it
the mind, small bird,
flies up into the highest grey sky
it forgets the weight of its own bones
it forgets there was ever a nest
here is the secret of the root
it doesn’t argue with the rock
it grows around it
slow enough to be mistaken for patience
though it is only listening
drop what you are holding
the grass keeps close to the ground
it was never reaching for the sky’s attention
and yet see how it survives the winter
low enough that the frost walks over it
and calls it ground
let the ribs widen
let the heavy heels remember the soil
let the shoulders come down from their listening
for danger that already passed
the bark won’t flinch at the axe
it’s already given its softness away
to the deeper wood
this is not surrender
this is knowing where the self is kept
the oak has stood through weather
it did not choose and could not name
it has no memory of a decision
only of staying
which asks nothing of the tree
except that it stand
which asks nothing of the body
except that it remain
—lyra moon (the softness it keeps is the softness it survives on)
august 23, 2026