The Old Oak

Sarah Cliff

Period 2

9/30/15

An withered Oak, surrounded by weeds,

sleeps under the midnight moon

down to the floor of a blanketed hill.

Hushed wind invokes whispers in the weeds.

“Why so so frail, old Oak?”

“Why so gnarly, old Oak?”

“You seem sad, old Oak.

Crickets chirp a rhythm

anticipating an answer.

The old Oak scans the shimmery blades

of green, so perfectly pointed.

The moon’s silver shine reflects off of

their young tender leaves.

They stand proud.

“Frail, you say? I am neither strong nor weak

Gnarly you say? I am neither glamorous nor repulsive

Sad, you say? I am far from it.”

“I am only enlightened”

The grass whisper violently in the wind

They spend the rest of the night

trying to make sense of the wise

oak’s teachings to no prevail.

When midsummer sun scorches the hilltops the next day,

the Old Oak lies peacefully

among fields of dead grass.