Black Oak Poem by Phillip Erb

I spoke to a my parasite this morning
Trying to understand how it feels
Locked inside a chrysalis asleep
Seven suns after his last meal

The wind twists and bends my spine
But the action is fruitless and weak
Short of a violent spring thunderstorm
No breeze will grant me release

How long has he been asleep?

The wind dies silent -
The atmosphere grows
Tender, fragile, and still;
Come to a helpless rest
Suspended high off my branch
Dreaming of thunder
and praying for rain.