The oak tree is not dormant in the summer.
It waves at you, beckoning
you up its trunk.  It suggests that you ascend
its branches.  It rustles
you an imperative, and you obey.
 
But once you move skyward, the oak
will claim you as its own. Don’t look down
it will say, and your throat will clench
as you glimpse the roots. Don’t let go
it will hum and invite you to grasp
its brittle twigs, its mossy bark. Alone, you will cling
 
until your stomach grumbles. You will mew.
You will murmur yourself to sleep.
Your skin will shrivel.
 
You will need a voice raised from the dirt,
echoing from hands cupped around lips.
You will need this to drown out the oak’s chant. 
You will need a name, your own, pelted
at your ears like rocket noise on July fourth.
You will need to listen, to remember yourself,
 
to consider that your heels have more than once brushed
soil. Consider that you can, in a few weeks, watch leaves
waltz and whirl downward while perching
on your porch swing, although the oak will still mumble
You can’t. Consider that the person yelling
your name knows your history and each freckle
on your shoulder. Consider that you can divorce
the trunk without a lawyer. You came with nothing. Jump.