Winter oak


These woods belong to my good friend.

A week each fall, he’s kind to lend

his cabin, hills and trees to me

so I can taste the season’s end.

It’s here I sit beneath a tree

(an oak whose leaves are still not free

though summer’s green is now gone);

it’s here I sit and simply be.

The other trees look bare and drawn –

they’ll sleep until the summer’s dawn –

but oaks still sing a rustling score,

defying even winter’s brawn.

…. My songs, I hope, your hearts restore,

…. if only for a season more.

Click to hear the poem read aloud.