Live Oak After seven years of walking this road, I’ve picked my tree. I hug it daily, stretch my arms to wrap around its six hard trunks. Little suckers grow from the bark, resembling holly sprouts, spiny, sharp, attempting, I suppose, to grow into branches. They’ve got a long way to go. We talk about the weather, how my tree breathes the rain, smiles at the sun. We discuss the neighbors; who’s walked their dog today, who’s forgotten to retrieve...
