the oak he becomes/with roots as toes/and sprouts as thumbs

Eden Dunford, Poetry Editor

The one who taught me

to always say please

told me to see the whole wood,

and not just the trees.

I watch him wake at dawn

while the sun has just started to breathe,

the oak he becomes

with roots as toes

and sprouts as thumbs.


His arms reach,

measured and planned,

his breath draws,

both twigs and lungs expand

to brush the sky,

His feet land

on praying floor,

rich in spirit,

church-mouse poor.


I am a tree-hugger

on those cold, dry-breath mornings.

My frigid feet patter

and knees bend to soaring.

A warped back bends,

his large frame, dwarfing,

and branches lift me up so I can see

the world of opportunities

my dad has earned for me.