The Old Oak Tree
For thirty-three years she’s been standing there,
With all her majestic beauty, without a care.
From a tiny seedling I had planted her,
The years rolled by swiftly, like a blur.
The decision was made, she must come down,
The old oak tree looked stately wearing her crown.
The tree surgeon, Jesse, came by that day,
Chain saw in hand, he didn’t come to play.
As each limb was sawed off, I felt the pain,
I stood helplessly as my big oak was slain.
Finally she stood cold, undressed and bare,
I felt so ashamed for my part in this affair.
I saw the surgeon cutting low on her trunk,
Then she began to sway like somebody drunk.
Finally, exhausted, she did a curtsy and fell,
A small tear came in my eye as I bid her farewell.
©2010 Lynn B. Glover