Death of my Oak

When I moved into the new placeI found him there: invading my space.Beautiful and majestic in attendance:overpowering the front yard. I often stood in his tall shadeAnd wondered at the roughness of the bark,the sharpness of the needles,the sheer size- too wide to circumventwith my puny human arms. As I touched the bark,my fingers running into cavernous grooves,I wondered about his previous lovers-the scores who has touched the wood. I noticed, despite the factthat he was long in the tooth-supposed to be an example to the young-he was ever so slightly askew.It looked as if he was leaning over,resting in midair on an invisible elbow. From the far reaches of my mindI heard my mother’s voice declare:My child, it’s such a shameTo always see you leaning againstthe walls and doorframe! I had always been a rebel, out of place.So it became my favourite spaceWhere I dreamed of adventureAnd laid my plans, or rested myweary bones after hellish days. I watched him lean over andlower to the one side.A tired giant going to restUntil one stormy night he fell.I found him the next morning-roots all exposed to my view.I wondered if people would thinkme weird or obsessed if I coveredhis indecency with a blanket. The vultures came to pick at his carcass.I pulled a pillow over my headto drown out the sounds of his screamsas they tore into the woodand took him away piece by precious piece.It took them ten daysto get rid of all the evidence.Yet, in the place where he used to be,A gaping hole still stood. It is a month later when Iplant into the enormous holea new oak, young and tender.I plant it with great care,then examine my handiwork.The rebel in me steps forward,place my foot against the stemand ever so slightly push.I stand back with a smileAnd see in its misshapen formthe image of the other oak,and the image of me.