POEM - Oak

the sight of felled oak makes me sob
these quartered trunks gray as elephant legs

this wrinkled bark skin that begs touch
that speaks of reconstructed earth

of some great sacrifice for progress sake
or at least something more noble

than just a new gaggle of condos going in ¾
the sight of dying oak makes me weep

the humility of the coppice of common shrubs
is dwarfed by the sadness of cut oak

positioned in final acts of a torturous demise
piled up discarded as dead dead piled upon dead

everything is captured for autopsy later
held fast by the embrace of remembrance

that stores all wisdom in silent counting rings
and the unnerving quiet bravery of graying wood