The Oak

Alone, standing, oaken life take root

the wood gnarls as branches stretch,

the colored leaves fall down, down

and the moss hangs down, down

bent, twisted, craven mass of limbs.

I stand, wondering how this, alone, might stir and how the

—limbs, reaching, have no other limbs to twine,

I touch, and I consider wood-borne genocide, this rough

—bark grating on my fingers,

but the bough yields and the leaves descend,

and I, standing here alone, am left to ponder

how colorless the world can be

with one life, one love, and none to share it,

and I think it is no wonder this solitary thing

sets to wilting in the chill.

* My latest contribution to the wonderful One Shot Poetry Wednesdays! Once you’ve had a look, check out some of the other One Shot Poets as well– they’re a skilled bunch of poets, looking to form a community and support one another.  Enjoy!