Massive limbs, all bleached and dry,
lie cracked and broken on the ground,
the evidence of vast expansion
long ago, before the storm.
A brittle bark now peels away
from half the trunk that towers still,
despite its many amputations.
The crown is gone, its glory shorn,
and roots lie rotting down below.
I will not mourn this ancient oak
for still a stream of life runs strong
from base to tip, from root to bud,
and every Spring, its rush of green
drinks in the sun for one more year,
for one more season,
each new leaf, a grand achievement.
