Old white oak, are you better-looking
in the winter? Your rounded crown
is tufted pale-green gray with lichen.
Deep within, your arms unfold
their brawn of moss, a dark chartreuse.
How could it be that one thick shoulder
now lies shattered in the meadow,
lopped at last by gravity? Simply a bit
of ground to make up, rumpled bed
for another acorn, soon to wake.