I cannot count each layer laid,
on the back of bark, from rise of sap,
for every year a ring
for every spring I’ve grown.
I have seen the aged librarian
as toddler, boy and as a teen
when I lent my skin for him to carve.
her name and his;
knowing well that for girls in spring
forever lasts a week or two.
and ever since
I’ve watched him age and wither
I’ve given him my shadow
when he cries,
I’ve lent him shelter as he reads
the signs he left
knowing well that for an aging man
forever ends with death;
cause for an aging oak a human
life is brief.
Today Mish hosts poetics at dVerse and want us to write from nature’s point of view. I let an old oak tell another piece of story from the life of the aged librarian.
March 28, 2017