My white oak tree
came from bays of blue crab.
He found me beneath the Everglades,
in tangles of sawgrass, endangered,
like the crocodiles surrounding me.
He extended a sturdy branch,
pulling me from the wetlands
I was wallowing beneath.
Solid roots pressed into me
as if I were the generous soil
they needed to breathe—
until he recoiled,
my mud and humid air too thick
for the northern tree.
Once again, I’m adrift in a dreamland.
Where you grow into me,
my white oak tree.