Live Oaks

Live Oaks

Compassionate the way the sneering whine 
Of the neighbor’s weed whacker dies away, 
As if so that I can hear the wind creak
In the antique furniture of the trees.
These nearest the house are coast live oaks,
Called that because they never lose their leaves.
But hanging a hammock, the first one I tried
Drilling into for an anchor was rotten.
Water gushed out of it like they say it did
Out of Christ’s pierced side. I apologized
Like when you walk in on someone crying
And found two others willing to hold me,
Swaying whenever the wind sways through them,
Looking up at leaves that will never fall.
Even the dead one gets to wear hers still
Like a woman buried in the green dress she loved.