Slow Dancing Poem by Taylor Graham

I stand with my back against an oak —
actually two oaks that have wound
their trunks together as if they’d been
slow-dancing, her head on his shoulder,
her golden leaves disheveled in light.

That’s what comes of slow-dancing,
my mother might have said, as if she
knew. As if she’d once heard music
sweet as Orpheus when she was young.
As if she’d ever been as young as these

two oaks that grew into one tree rooted
like any other oak in the woods, but
their good grain so curved and spiraled,
they’re useless for lumber, the way
they just stand here, dancing.