The Old Oak

The old oak
pulls a new shawl
around her limbs,
youth ripe on her branches.
The pregnant mountain
shale about her shoulders,
swollen in last term,
her attentive mid-wife, tender wind,
forever combing rakes of pollen cells
from her grey tresses.
The infant sulk
of a rapid stream
tosses spawning fish in tantrum,
runs to the mature river
carrying a promise without question.
In secret language
innate to fledgling,
each dog calls to another,
each bird finds its way home,
their shadows mapped upon fertile ground.
As the Sun encompasses the Earth
full and constant on her plotted path,
her soft rays cast,
as bees bringing news to blossoms,
a courtesy which blesses the abundance,
an eye that lasts, long after you and me.