“I cannot bear you.”

Confounded, stubborn Oak.

Your broken back heals stronger.

Your mighty limbs carry more weight,

More and more, forever hanging on another cross —

and without a tear.

And then, only then,

(to break your vow of silence)

a delicate whisper — your leaves dancing in the wind.

“And only now am I here to see you!”

Your roots defy earth’s iron guard.

With your delicate crown of green flowers

you are yet relentless —

In your forgiveness,

In your fingertips

you hold the face of the heavens.

“How dare you?”

The Earth shakes you,

The Sun burns you,

And as you drink from the sky

the lightning rends you

into pieces.

“How can you?

I cannot bear it.

How dare you?

I fall to the ground at the sight of you.

Here, before you,

I can smell the seasons in your spirit.”

With supreme regality, you twist and bend,

raving madly against the elements.

You roar silently against an apathetic end

Your roar silently in the face of god,

You dance so fearlessly with death,

You wrestle so endlessly with the very ground,

You wrap your feet around the heart of the earth,

And all the while delicately

balancing a bird’s nest in your tangled hair.

“I cannot bear you.

I cannot stand here before you.

How dare you? Surely you are the epitome, ancient oak.

I can see the beginning and the end in your tired eyes.”

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