Long before my father's time
this oak had reached maturity,
and, baring flame or lightening strike,
she will outlast my dying day.
her children, all about her now,
were acorns when I learned to read, and,
long before I had my words,
she gave a home to migrant birds.
Biologists say some DNA
is shared in common by man and oak
but somewhere down life's own gnarled tree
we branched off to the forms you see.
The Oak, long Lived, gives thanks to God
while standing sentinel in our yard.
Restless short lived beings like me
sip merlot and write poetry.
Her leaves of gold and red
foretell the coming of the Fall
While fine vintages of Grape give me
cause to write about a tree.