Oh, how I wish aged oak could speak
and tell me of its days
spent among the passing crowds
and seasons from gold to brown,
If only to feel its longings
for what I cannot tell,
but maybe to share a bit of wisdom
or what it's like to stand firm
during those awesome, summer thunderstorms.
Oh, I wish to know this tree of wonder
older than my past,
and what promises it may have felt
as it struggled through man's labyrinth,
this fortress by the highway,
protected for how long?
I will come here again
when I'm old and weary
just to see this silent friend
and whisper ever so softly,
"I'll keep your wisdom with me as I go towards the light."
I'll touch the coarse, gray bark
and let it know of a caring heart's return,
and will rest there on its roots--
if time has let it be.