Hollowness came of lightning strike
long before my meeting
that *****, muscular oak. It was
always that way. I knew no different
of it.

Its charred orifice spoke of
an interloper,
an intruder whose presence
carved fire within,
creating sooty vacuity.

Marvelous survival instinct however,
shown by this tree's greening
each Spring, taught me
perseverance. My own lightning
strikes to be weathered as well,
but perhaps not with as much ardor.

Vehemence and passion can still
live within internal voids.
I have witnessed many furry
and feathered creatures raise brood
from the scarred hole of that oak.
How is it I know this is good?

For a fuzzy feeling of wonder,
still somehow stirs reliance in
desire outside this emptiness.

I see the reflection of light
in the critter's eyes which emerges
from darkness which has kept
it safe. Yet now, hunger encourages
it to roam from its dwelling.

Am I the same?