The Old Oak Tree

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I sit on the wooden swing,

Beneath the crippled, old, oak branches,

Listening to the world that sounds far away.

I watch the soft warm breeze,

Stirring browning leaves as they fall,

Slowly spiraling to the ground.

The purest blue above me is calm,

As if it could never be cloudy or terrible,

But just piece is just for a moment

Of a time line so long a beginning and end

Are unknown forever as it is just such: eternity.

How small I am, sitting beneath this tree

That has weathered so much of this sky.

This old, strong oak that has lost branches

To storms and to man, has known

The blinding heat of lightening and burn of ice,

Has been a home for life and a shelter of protection.

But this old oak that I sit beneath,

It has never suffered love, and for that alone

I envy this old crippled oak tree.

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