This morning happiness washed through my body
while looking up into a pool of stars
with no one to tell and nothing to write with.
I am stuck inside a car
with a new poem burning my fingers.
This is my own unique brand of crazy.
I talk to an oak in my front yard,
ask it how its survives
all of this early-morning beauty.
“I am a tree who owns itself.
My joy is the wind through my branches
Love the dark that awaits—
know that you can bloom at anytime.”