My Oak

A southern gothic poem about a tree.

 

My Oak

Proud and sturdy

Over me you soar,

Mocking me in

My restful sleep,

Overtaking me like

 A towering inferno.

 

Your roots engorge

My fertile earth,

Ruthlessly depleting my

Soil of all its nutrients.

 

Your stiff and wide branches

 Arch and spread over me,

Providing me shade and moisture

 From the parching sun’s rays.

 

Your grey curly moss hangs

 Down from your branches,

Like that of a pungent hairy pit.

 

Your ornamental leaves

 Turn colors with anger,

Leaving you each fall,

Because of how small and helpless,

They feel attached to you.

 

 

Author's Note

I love old oak trees.

Reviews

[Michael of Gilead]

I love old oaks, as long as they are not next to my deck....those acorns are dangerous!

[Closedown]

I love old oak trees too, and I certainly miss mine now.