We overreach our long selves.
We are an oak in wind garden,
Raising leafy hands to longing.
Our words are loving and long.

We are overreaching oakheads
Launching wind around them,
Trees that are wind and water,
Ending up as broken furniture.

We were the earliest of acorns
To a world garden full of oaks.
We reach empty skies above us
Never quite touch their center.

Our longing is long loving thing,
Never quite touching the curve.
We whirl in overwhelming robes.
We are lovers by our belonging.

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