Oak and Vine
It didn’t know
what it was
getting into,
the thick vine
that grows up
into an oak,
floats beside
the tree, two
hand widths
away, not
touching
anything.
Thirty years
ago, the vine,
a mere twig,
reached into
the first tangle
of branches
a few feet
from the ground
and held on
for a slow ride
into the sky.
The oak’s lofty
goals – height,
the sun, its crown
seen for miles –
while the vine,
considered less,
surprised itself
with this upward
path, its good
fortune to root
with giants.
Abner Oakes taught middle and high school English, plays ice hockey and drinks mezcal, and has had poems published in Potomac Review, Maryland Poetry Review, The Baltimore Review, and Thimble Literary Magazine. He lives in the Washington, DC area.
See more of Abner's work in 14.1 and 14.1