Under blue skies, the live oaks were just trees — hearty and expansive trees.
But in the feeble light of waning days or the frequent forays of morning fog, the rangy and sinuous moss-draped limbs became a Lovecraftian monster, head stuck into the damp loam in an attempted retreat to the underworld.
And if one stood still enough, those limbs just might start to writhe.
trunk bent at a right angle
and leaning to the south
yet, that tree shows no struggle
every second — day and night
gravity summons it to the ground
it’s survived more than a few monsoons
puddles and soggy soil
have conspired with gravity
the wind has conspired
climbing animals have conspired
alighting hawks and crows have conspired
the boy who crawled out the horizontal limb and swung conspired
for years they have conspired
but the tree rarely so much as trembles
it’s doomed, but that knowledge holds no sway
and when i sit,
centered to thwart gravity,
i still feel the dogged pull
though its only conspirator is