Jan Hansen Poet Blank verse

after the storm

After The Storm 

Now that the spring tempest is over and the ground 
is littered with twigs and juicy, green leaves flung 
off mother tree long before they should, it gladdens 
the woods where the old oak still stands, although it is 
almost hollow inside and is home to a family of foxes, 
myriads of insects, and a 40-year-old bachelor hawk.   
It is the oldest wild tree around; there is an older one 
one thought of an olive tree that still remembers when 
Roman soldiers marched through here, and the young 
centurion who rested in its shadow, fell asleep and 
dreamt of becoming a new Cesar. Whether he made 
It or not, the olive has no way of knowing. The reason 
other trees were glad that the oak endures, that its 
Presence gives them the hope of longevity

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