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Poem

I am sitting under the old oak old tree whose roots and branches have withstood the test of time. I am sitting under the old oak tree with hard woody roots descend in into the deep and spirally arranged leaves, with lobed edges, and a nut that looked like an acorn, borne within a cup, reminiscing the passion of time and the species that live through the ages is divided into old world and new world clades crossing legs between time and destiny. 

Here I am sitting under the old oak tree watching the traffic moving swiftly in the street and  impatient motorist honking their horns and the handyman  across the road is cutting my neighbor bushy lawn, and singing a woeful ballad perhaps Mozart or lyrics composed by Beethoven and I am absorbing it all.

Here I am sitting under the old oak trees where endurance and strengths are born and the new age begins, it has spiral around its roots and melody in the trunks that speak the truth and ignite power in mind of the youth.

The power of ancient wisdom lives in the old oak tree with twisted elongated roots that turns across the stream and anchored  deeply in the ground, and thick trunk parachuting in the air and glory springing up  everywhere and  new boots on a journey to the east take a rest underneath the old oak tree.

 If you listen carefully to the roots, you will hear the voices of truth as they surround the pinnacle of your soul. The branches are spreading and the leaves are in harmony with the breeze everything you need is underneath the old oak tree.

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