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The oldest oak tree took root in my backyard. Time and the weather have little marred, No one can attest to his origin of time, Though his leaves are still the color of lime. His bark tells the tale of what has been. My mother tells me that he is my kin, Today the oldest oak tree was felled, I shouted and I wept and I rebelled, His lumber is going to be used to build a great man’s house. But for the entire world I could have been a mouse. A great sorrow overcame me at this revelation. My plaintive cry could not halt this degradation. I look out of my front window and see the oldest oak tree on the ground. In my ears, the only sound I could hear was my heart pound, I walked out to him and gazed upon him, My world started to fade and everything became dim. As I ran my fingers over his gnarled branches I uncontrollably wept. And life, for me slowly ebbed forward into reality as I forward crept. The oldest oak tree is my family heirloom, One day, his place I will assume. The oldest oak tree’s roots run deep and strong. From forth my branches and bark will come our song, I feel him within me everyday, Rejoice in the times that have been, for this can be the only way. All I have left of the oldest oak tree is a sacred memory, Of my sister and me climbing that lovely tree. Now I am the oldest oak tree and I must take root in the backyard. I too, like him, one day will become old and marred. Now my children will be able to see more of me, And they too will climb and see what is to see. |