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.”