Where once a sprightly sapling stood and spun
With summery rays and butterflies, now lies
A withered Oak, his gnarled and wrinkled skin,
Marred and aged by the winters’ deathly seize.
He’s lost his mane to the dust beneath, his limbs
Knotted and dressed in mossy green. The skies
Caressing him, sagging spine, with whistled hymns,
For he’s stood tall and evergreen through trill
Tempest, he’s sheltered all who cloud bedims,
Who've loved him, missed and loved again and still,
When Reaper’s staff does knock, it meets him: lost,
And always quite surprised when it shoots to kill.
Remembrance rattles through his lungs, and blest;
His final sunrise lays him down to rest.