Old Oak
There’s an old oak tree not far from my house. When I say old, I mean it could be thousands
of years old. How long does an oak tree
live? Gnarled stump, twisted heavy limbs, tall, as tall as a
building. Nothing grows under its
wings. They branch out far like an
umbrella, blocking the sun, killing all that would try to root below its
massive reach. If one sits a spell under
its canopy, dream, day dream of things it’s seen, heard, felt, time has no
meaning when you’re an oak. There is a
slight cup in one side facing the west where the storms come from. It seems to fit my back as a good chair fits,
snug but comfortable. I find myself
staying just a little longer, listening to the talk of the tree. Gentle breezes move its leaves, making a
purring sound that is pleasing to ones ears.
I day dream of those that have come and those that are long gone from
this world. All come, all go, the oak
cares not. I sense the oak has helped
the passage of a few in years gone by when throwing a rope over one of its
heavy limbs and then around the neck of an outlaw was considered laws carried
out with justice. It’s time for me to
get back to the busy life I live, but I’ll be back soon, I wish for more
stories of this old oak.
From the Ramblings
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