Coming from an island of blue-green water
the murmur of laughter and fun times
muddled by the still, hot air
splashing whiffs of chlorine
and I am no longer a man
but a plant.
But not just a plant but a tree
better then that a mighty red oak
standing stiffly in the lack of breeze
my gnarly and weather worn branches
casting about sudden shadows
spreading the wisdom of shade
in patterns that grow longer
as the day grows older
an articulate soldier.
Children come to graze upon my mottled bark
and mock the insects I harbor
they laugh and name the squirrels who race high
scavenging my seeds in which I have spit among my leaves
but what they call mold I call moss
and if they don't understand it is no great loss
because here I still stand.
At my feet lies summertime
the sun is so close and hot
children cavort beneath my branches
a random breeze brings a promise of coolness
and I am no longer a man.