The Oak

                               From tiny                             Acorn, it began;                            Nourished so blindly                            By the Gardner Grand.                        Yet, it thrived and stretched                      To break ground, finally bursting                     Through the parched surfaces etched                    Where 100 years good, five thirsting                  From unrelenting sun making oak wretched                 Until seasons changed and rain was fetched.                  Much activity occurred around it’s spot,                  What with squirrels gathering and a tot                   That built a tree house on broken arm                    While father worked the family farm.                      Such was the oak in little harm.                       It survived two hurricanes but,                         Alas, one lightening bolt                              Ripped open gut                               With megavolt                               In dying jolt                               That stripped                               Layer dripped                               In oozing sap                               Depriving cap                              Of nourishment                              And, so, meant                              A silent death                              Lacking breath                              To vitalize it                              So it died bit                              By bit until a                              Stump in decay                              Was it one day.                      The last to die, were roots                 Which layed beneath the surface grim          Unable to breathe    the oak’s    headless boots    Could not continue very       much      longer along cliff’s rim Until they,                      too                       entered dim.