Reflections on the Oak Beyond My Garden Gate
Listen:
Read:
The tree was never mine, you see,
But lovely branches graced my gate,
And never impulse or longing free
I wished its strength my palette sate.
Oft its fragrance; heady; fair
Would drift like lover’s sweat in air,
Yet from my wary perch I’d spy
The sparkle of her touches there.
One always knows the tended oak
From wilder cousins round the road.
I even see a carving there
Unless misled by raven’s stare.
One day I’ll lie as stars rush by.
I’ll shed my sterile alibis.
Perhaps to dance. Perhaps to dine
Beneath His shade with honeyed wine.
For now I’ll linger and reflect -
Emboldened, calm and circumspect,
So breezes tangling through those leaves
Perhaps will fail to hear me breathe.
But oaks are crafty, wise and this
One clearly tasted lightning’s kiss.
I even see the jagged split where He
Became an old soul, just like me.
So though for now, I’ll fly away -
His roots do speak; His branches sway
In such a fashion, I must say,
“That oak is fine in Holy ways.”
