Oak in the Meadow

In the dewy emerald meadows
Shining with blissful radience,
In recognition of the mounting Sun.
That scented lawn beneath the Oak.
Solitary and crooked with age,
Arthritic fingers adorned with leafy jewels,
Grasp towards the sky as if to hold fast
A timeless and ageless staff for to balance.
Lonesome is the Oak.
His sighing can be heard with every gust.
His rustling a restless anxiety and longing.
In the distance He sees the forest.
Far beyond His meagre clearing.
In wanting to join them His knots moan.
The pines whisper to themselves.
The hawthorn scrapes along the earth.
But never minding the lonely Oak.

The skies will mellow,
And the light will change.
The sun will wane and the moon will bolster.
Soon the Oak's boughs will hold no longer,
The sweet whistle of the sparrows.
Forelorn He will be.
His emeralds will turn ruby and gold,
But for whom to see?
The rain will become chilling,
The meadows will not recognize the Sun.
Autumn will come for all to rejoice,
All but the lonesome Oak.
For what good is a daisy that has wilted?
What good is beauty when one is blind?
What good is in that wisened Oak,
When His arms no longer give shelter?
Mournful is the Oak.

Soon then He shall be stripped naked.
His dignity will fall in pieces,
To settle at His feet and rot.
That crooked Oak shall sigh no more,
Muted by the season.
The dewy meadow awakens crystaline
With each new Sun.
But the Oak is blind even if He could see.
Soon the meadow will sleep,
Dormant under a blanket of snow.
But the Oak will be awake,
And the Oak is ever more lonesome.
In the distance He sees the forest.
The pines are still wrapped in green,
Though bent with the snow in their arms.
The pines whisper to each other,
Laughing at the lonesome Oak,
Who stands alone against the dark sky.

The snow will sooner moisten,
Becoming heavier before departing,
As if to lament its own imminant passing.
The Oak will be happy for it,
His boughs budding with youth.
His acorns will sprout,
Green and swelling for his furry friends.
They come from the forest to visit him,
And His arms are ever open,
Stretched and expecting,
Yet still ever trembling and anxious.
Though perhaps it is His age.
The dewy meadow thickens again,
Sprouting from the brown and bald land.
The Spring quickens.

The dewy meadow is a soft pillow,
Upon which I lie under the crooked Oak.
Manifold my age, and yet more keen than I.
I sit beneath His boughs,
Humming to keep Him company.
His sighing and swaying keeping my rhythm.
The Oak is a father and a mother.
The Oak is a brother and a friend.
I will stay with Him.
For lonesome is the Oak.
And I am lonesome alongside Him.