Oak – A Poem
I stand with my chin resting on the brown-gray tweed of you,
The bright orange hat on my bald head slightly askew.
For a second, I consider hugging you with all of my heart.
Instead, I’ll take your picture, write a poem, and call it art.
My camera held high in my hands ‘til my joints start to ache,
I press the shutter as my muscles start to quiver and shake.
I knew I’d gotten the photo I’d dreamed of taking of you,
Your rusty orange leaves reaching for the sky of fall blue.
A sudden wind howled, and fallen leaves swirled on their way,
While leaves still bound to your branches, danced a ballet.
The fallen colors of autumn crunched when I stepped back,
And acorn caps their nuts stashed for a squirrel snack.
I walked back down the path, more stops were part of the days plan,
Straightening my hat and pulling mittens on my hands.
“I’ll be back,” my whisper carried away on the nippy breeze.
My heart already homesick feeling for you – an oak tree.
In winter the cold and snow keep me from going where you thrive,
I’ll wait impatiently until the warm breezes of spring arrive.
Once again, I will consider hugging you with all of my heart,
Then, I’ll take your picture again and will call it art.
I will thank God for allowing the long-fallen acorn of you,
To be the magnificent tree He planted and grew.
Until Next Time,