PW (10/01/1970 / Webster, New Hampshire)

The Oak (1991r)

The oak stands in a field eternal.
From the beginning of time, unto the end.
Others have been removed so it can grow,
few remain which in time will become friends.

It withers at times almost to the point of death,
but always grows back stronger than before.
It has imperfections which make it unique,
and in this sense is almost perfect.

The windes blow it back and forth,
and it still snaps straight when they die.
The oak grows strong and virile.
It will not die before its time.
Forever like this tree,
forever I shall be.

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Comments (1)

this poem does not say anything, does it