The Old Oak
Each morning I awake
To the old, gnarled oak
With its back to the rock cliff
Facing the busy road
I think He is dying…
He mirrors my soul
Also old, weary and twisted,
By this toxic world
Waiting to die
But unable to do so…
So we hang on,
the old oak and me
For one special day
And one special ray
Of sunshine
To green our leaves and straighten our shafts
To stretch again for the orb
And Her warmth
Copyright 2013/Stephen Scheff