An Oak

In a jar I planted an acorn that I found one day whilst walking through some woods. After a few days a little shoot appeared and nervously pushed out two leaves to taste the air. When everything seemed safe, three more came almost overnight and quickly turned dark green, sawing my kitchen windowsill with their wobbly edges. All I had was a jar and I had to wrap it with paper to stop algae growing a fuzzy beard behind the glass. When I am eating my breakfast it sometimes catches my eye and I feel guilty for holding it hostage, teasing it with a view of the outside where it should be but then I think; without me it would not exist at all. It would be squirrel food. So it's lucky in its glass cage. Perhaps when it's older I'll set it free, plant it in a calm spot letting roots sneak down, stretching in every direction tickling both sky and soil, stitching air and earth. Then when I go for walks there would be a friend waiting for me constantly. Solid and unmoving, expanding with me over the years. We could tell each other secrets which fall then turn brown and melt into the ground. Each bump and curve will know my fingers and a new bud would be inspected as if it had sprouted on my own arm. If a heavy storm should break a branch the crack would end in my heart. Although younger than me in body, the oak's spirit would have the knowledge of all its forefathers. Untouchable wisdom absorbed through countless lifetimes only faintly, suggestively audible if I press my ear to hear the sap rise.