I and the tree (edit 1)

There are as many of me, as many
as leaves on the oak t—,
each inimitable I believe yet perceived
as unabridged, the equivalent; my grandeur
an illusion of the whole.

There is more to me than can be counted
by foe or friend, their heads craned u— ,
as they stand beneath the tree,
try to place me into a past shadow,
not the present’s circumstance.

Each of me, like every veined leaf, spr
ings 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 spa
es as we are of solid matter, we are filled
with light, both particle and wave
and all the infinitely finites in-between.