Oak Hill
But here I’ve found myself, every day for a few weeks. Sweating under the sun and dripping from April storms in the DMV. I am not from here. Maybe if I were I could be buried in this spot, this large oak stump my gravestone; I could etch my name and let it fade with the tides of summer as they turn to autumn and fall into brisk winter. Not as brisk as Boston winter of course, nor the shivering cold of my own mind’s madness, but brisk nonetheless, cracking the skull of the large stump and filling its cavernous body with dried leaves, acorn caps and insect colonies.
