The sprig of young oak leaves startles me,
a shaft of sunlight bathing it in yellow-green,
sharp in its brilliance and in its contrast
to the hunter green needles of the pines,
in whose midst it grows. But the color
isn’t what struck me; it was my realization
that I knew this oak; I encountered it
last fall, glowing russet red. “Why, hello!”
I say to it, right out loud. “Good to see you
looking so fine. Good to see you.”
I have stood in this very spot before,
staring up at this very same tree.
And somehow it feels like meeting
a friend, right here at the edge
of the woods.