older and wiser than any living thing around
these pendunculate oaks give ground
to nothing and no one, the roots like tentacles
trying to clasp the boulders and shackle
cryptogam encased granite to the steeping
slope, whiskery fronds of fern and lichen
dreep from ledges and branches, the sun
streams in between, giving translucence
to the green of the moss smothered rocks.
I look amongst the crevices and cracks
for acorns that are not anywhere here,
nowhere on, or in, or under the layers
of copper crisped leaves is the small
cup encrusted nut, nowhere at all.