I stare at a painting of the Angel Oak above my desk and think about the longevity of its branches
Alive still
Even today
Once climbed upon by natives of her land
Pilgrims’ children, too
I think of the famous row planted centuries ago at Boone Hall
Oaks stronger than their Pecan brethren
Storms incapable of wresting them down
Branches unfurled in every direction, even parallel, reaching to heaven and hell and outward like a hug
The rows serendipitous and interlocking
Singing in the cover of twisted limbs, twisted roots
Unfettered from last millennium
The breeze strong as a hurricane to shake even one
I see it in the frame beneath this glass above me
The Angel Oak isn’t alone
She cannot fall victim to loneliness, nor abandonment
Her moss covered tentacles pulse all the same
Whether here before or here after, she stands and breathes Lowcountry air on John’s Island
Resolute to face the tide once again