Friday, December 18, 2009

31 August 2009


The Water Oaks that soared above our yard
And swayed at ease or shook in hurricanes
And shaded us below, seeming to guard
Our house, are faltering now from age’s strains.

As rain collects in crevices that rot
And heavy downpours load the weakened limbs,
They crack then crash, if luckily, on our lot,
If not, onto our roof, by Fortune’s whims.

Then, oak by oak, they’re plucked from all around,
Their broad arms chain-sawed into thudding logs,
Their branches chipped and mulched, their stout stumps ground,
Their mates displaced: the squirrels, birds and frogs.

How will it be when not one oak is left?
We too will need to leave—forlorn, bereft.