Time passing; or the oak tree

There,
there is a quite earnestness about
the oak tree
that has set itself apart.

It’s,
it’s as if over the course of watching
its caretakers come,
and go,
The roots, branches,
and wizened trunk have

withdrawn,

fearful perhaps, of another autumn,
another quiet
passing of seasons.

A whisper passes,
(through leaves, through branches).
A yearning, wistful call,
or perhaps simply
an acknowledgement.

That seasons, as do all things,
turn.

A leaf,
edges curled,
tattered,
drifts slowly,

endlessly,

the oak stands silent,
watching.



alone.