Mykl Wike

The Oak

Deep in the moist earth
her roots stand firm.
Broad in trunk from a life long lived,
rings reflecting the years.
Some full and thick,
nourished by rain and sun.
Some narrow and hard,
survivors of the lean years.
Knots betray branches pruned,
sacrificed for the good of the whole.
Her trunk grows stronger,
as the dead wood falls away.
For every limb lost
allows light to branches behind.
Ever leafing out,
ever growing, feeding their own growth.
Her feet deep in the earth,
Her arms reaching the sun.