There are as many of me, as many
as leaves on the oak, each inimitable
yet seen as unabridged, the equivalent,
all touching, all parts of the whole.
There is more to and of me
than can be counted by friend
or foe alike, their heads craned up,
as they stand beneath the tree
trying to place me into a past shadow,
not the present’s circumstance.
Each of me, like the leaves, springs
into being by the eye’s momentary glance;
each determined to be the definitive
and not let another take their place.
The tree and I are as much a product of spaces
as we are of solid matter, we are filled
with light, both particle and wave
and all the infinitely finites in-between.