My Oak

My once-strong oak, you’re bending low. How sad it is to see you so. I met you when you had begun Your fresh ascent beneath the sun. How young you were- a slender tree - Before our time began to flee. Your leafy crown - how nice and full; How filled with hope - your yearning soul! Beneath much sun and too much rain, you’ve grown in girth and weathered strain. Your aging limbs are growing frail and next to younger trees you pale. But still you stand, my trusty friend; I know you‘ll be there till the end. A stump, however, you’ll become, cut down by time. We all succumb! One day I’ll say (from where I’ll be) - I loved a stump and he loved me. And then I’ll say: Come, all, and see - That stump -again- is a strong tree!