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Poetry by Peter D. Orr
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The Oak I shall complain for the elements Without voices to tell the earth Of their sorrow. Of their dismay in growing old.
One day I sighted a grand tree Along a path much trodden By youthful figurers Marching By a rocky cliff with flowers Blooming.
Spring was in the air And that old tree must be feeling the same Sweet blithe of energy Coupling through it's veins-- Through every succeeding ring (And for each one the wiser?)
The dark earth buckled With warm life beneath my boots (And those of young mountain climbers) Going up to that place Where the mountain crags Meet the skyline. And there, as if by Heaven's decree, Stood the lone, majestic oak.
Yet even at this elevation The roots strike deeply And its commited strenght Is still able to draw one's view of the world Into focus despite any swayings.
The wind's soft zephyrs Slide past the graying Branches of the oak And all that listen intently Can hear the voice of a king Speaking of the long winter With the groanings of one hundered years. A sound like the mast Of a great and glorious bark.
Of late I have noticed a certain Leaning in that tree. Is it I who walk the crooked path? |