I and the tree

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.