Letter to the Oaks

1

Long before frost kissedthe shoal and geese foretolda miracle of raindrops congealingon a mud pond,you were the envy of maple.In autumn you were ginkgo beneathazure crisp and glazing.Your fan petals fellripe in winterwith arms spread like sailsof the last slave shippushing off the coast of Gambia.What bled and drownedin the light of those parched moonswhen they packed humansin the bowel stench of a holdcan never be compensated,never in your seasonof sweet shadeand crown of innocence,when placenta driesin a cotton field,horse hoofs and wagon wheelsclop on a hangman's road.

Charleston, 1863

II

You were just a seedling,tall and slender girth,when you gave sanctuaryto newborn sparrowswho flew the geese flight.The breath wind of slavesgrazed your mama's breasts,seared her boughs,sent cries soaring moon shotover black waveson the coast of Senegal.And then the cataclysm.Cannons ripped your greenswaying locks and rainedleaves blood soakedacross two fields stakingclaim to your roots.If there is time for truthit is now, when you growold hearing beacon shrillsat dawn wakingbirth of big dreams,and you standthe shifts of seas, mountainsand human conscience.

Birmingham, 1963