Oregon White Oak Agate

I am slowly being changed
from the inside out by the giantess
who lives in my tree—we
have become an Oregon oak
struggling to connect
the sky to the pure agates
hidden in our roots.

I vote for acorns;
she votes for falling leaves,
for shrugging off all color.
She wants to brood,
wrapped in her thick wood
until not even the sharpest stars
can pierce her dream.

I grub for the lost agates with both hands.
Stuffing them into my apron
pockets, I climb up her
chest limbs to Raven’s
unruly nest. I can place
the round stones there where the moon
can imbue them
with milky light.

Still held tight
by her dry, mossy hands,
I can turn the cheek
she can’t see to a salt breeze
coming from a sea
not far from here—
over the hill by the river’s mouth
where my jade horse still stands,
and ready to run.

–Sandy Jensen

2 thoughts on “Oregon White Oak Agate”

  1. Once again, very evocative. And my life is too busy for me to take the time to know what it is. Perhaps this poem is like a page marker, something to get back to one day when I have a moment to breathe.
    I went to Huntington LIbrary and there found a great oak tree. I spent much time underneath it, feeling its magic and solidness, realizing that this was worth the price of admission. I never went to the azalia gardens at all.

  2. Yikes, this gave me goose bumps for sure. You have consistent pattern of closing with the emotional zinger. This poem takes me into the lifeblood of the tree, into the arteries, at once part of the tree and independent of it. The tree rooted – the jade horse bridled and almost running already. An odd juxtaposition and yet, and yet, I can so relate. Cheryl Renee

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