The oak tree

I’d weep, too,

Abandoned by a house

Older than the crucifixion,

Rooted in Sapulpa, Oklahoma.

“I’ve lived too long,”

Rose whispered,

As they carried her out,

Feet first, past the loyal branches.

Children, then grandchildren,

Once hid and cried

Within its sheltering arms,

Until they outgrew its mysteries.

Brides posed in its shadow,

Their dresses teased by restless winds;

Dogs birthed beneath its boughs,

While cats sought it for their final rest.

The house, unsellable at any price,

Draws the neighbors' quiet scorn—

But the indifferent tree stands still,

For waiting is what it knows best.