THE OAKS
They're twisted and dark, gnarled and aged, Their gray moss reminds me of tears. It's daring the lightning, and terrible winds, That ages the oaks through the years.
Unlike the pine, which yields to a breeze, Springing back, eternally young, Grave battles are fought by the battered old oaks, Round whose heads the gray moss is hung.
They welcome the birds back, year after year, Though some fall to the storm's wildest rage, They resist! They defy! So foolish yet proud, They speak silently with the wisdom of age.
To others, the green leaves, or flowers each season, That's not for me, nor pines green and tall, None can compare to an old, moss covered oak, Scarred and weathered, but proudest of all.
- Donovan Baldwin
