I have no other means at my disposal to describe: what is in me, the magnetic molecules in my blood, they have motive. It is not my motive. Mine is to sit beneath my friend and constant companion, the sturdy and steady, predictable old oak tree. He knows his place and his burly roots they bound downward to anchor him, as he considers my shape, even the way I lean to my right just slightly, foot tucked underneath, for better divining somehow comes to me in this position; all this care in their formation of my wooden armchair amidst his muscly girth. But my veins, they too grow roots, and these are new, frivolous and frantic. They mean to burst through my bark and race like Alice through Wonderland, encountering creatures and their motives, finding fresh dirt to plough. These eager magnets of motive! They are surely drawn to their poles, and when they meet, nothing but the exchange. They know only one thing: to draw. And they draw me–against my will! I need oaken silence, a sun shelter, a rain barrier. I need the space and time to ponder the stars and the solar sin, the fall of my predecessors from drunken branches into strawberry fields lit with colors never before seen and forever since unforgettable. I sit beneath the oak now. I see it’s branches blink and weep like it’s cousin. They show me where to cut: the knife of Abraham. I think she means to tell me something; this too is my life. You’ve pondered long enough. This nook is your armchair and your coffin in one. Here you lie not to ponder, but to feed me as I have fed you. Spill that magnetic blood, those iron shavings! They are part of the brew that nourishes. I’ve fed you your fill; my fruit, my knowledge. Now give into her. Cut. Cut! and know me in death and sacrifice. I am the pole to your yearning ripeness. I am your beginning and your end. If you are the true seeker, then commit the carnal act. Spill your blood and your seed, and you will know me full and well. Die to me. Die in me. Die beneath these roots and become them. Come to know me and all the kings before you. Aphrodite makes my strong magnet. She drew you to me. Herod is the vine that wraps the ravens claw and binds his feet to my branches. Alexander’s unflinching vision planted my seed so deep with his monomaniacal digging, that no storm may uproot me. His sweat dripped down to my nourishment. And Caesar’s pride, it shaped that high backed chair of yours tween my roots; he stands behind you even now, at your guard. Come, join my dead queens and kings. These are they who tole. They are proud. They sit amidst Arthur’s round table inside my wide rings at night and drink your sanguine red reverence. The philosopher’s tannins spur wild duals amongst us our nature’s! You must join us! Our thirst is that which draws you nigh. Come and spill and drink and revel and charm Aphrodite to draw the next to us. Oh, this tree of life and death.