The Old Oak
When my grandmother died, I wore black.
The old oak, standing sentry
By my front door,
Reminded me to wear green.
“Verdant emeralds for spring, my dear!”
I couldn’t.
When my mother died, I wore black.
The old oak dipped itself in honey,
Blazing through the fall,
Calling,
“Join me!”
I couldn’t.
When my lover died, I wore nothing
But sorrow.
I watched through the window
As the oak tried its best
To dim the brightness of the world.
But instead, like a persistent suitor
It continued to offer itself –
The chartreuse exclamation of its lichen,
The ginger gloss of its acorns.
Eventually, its powdery white fungus.
When the old oak died,
I pulled down
the brightest blouses
from where they hung
And wore them all.
About the Creator
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