Beneath Oaken Branches

Beneath the oaken branches
of his life,
an old man sits alone
with his thoughts.
They are lonely companions
perhaps, but their
bittersweet rustlings
somehow soothing
in his solitude.
Seasons, time's
marker of years
spent in significance,
drift past his memory,
poignant recollections
of what had been
before the uncertainty...
before his summer waned
to autumn and the leaves
began to fall...
before he discovered
the vulnerability
of winter.
He pauses
in his musings
to catch a falling thought...
holding the golden treasure
for a moment
before he grants it freedom
to journey on.
In the spring of his youth
he questioned such generosity...
'Why does he let them fall
if he loves the world at all?'
His summer dreaded the sacrifice
he felt in autumn's coming.
But now beneath
the oaken branches,
his autumn lies before him...
his thoughts, his memories,
strewn upon the ground
of his youth...
and he understands.
For the winds will come
to scatter the wisdom
of his existence,
enriching the seasons
of another
and touching
the thoughts of many....

Beneath the oaken branches
of his life,
he gathers
a handful of lonely
companions, bids farewell to fall...
and grants himself freedom
to journey on
into the vulnerability
of his winter.