Oaks Book Laid Open
Vandyke oak tree, burgundy’s of Vandyke reds,
browns and gold’s; painted canvas in the sky;
a tower of crispy colors.
When you shed for winter, your secrets are revealed.
Each curve of limb reveals a story;
each knothole, an injury from your past.
Squirrel home sits on branch-roadways;
he’ll never get his mail, with no house number;
if he had one, he could order delivery
instead of hoarding so much food.
Old oak bending to the winds whims,
rocks squirrel to sleep at night.
I spy an occasional winged traveler
among the secrets; a robin left behind by the flock.
It watches through my window;
I know he wants to come in, but robins
are not house broken and
they do not use a cat box or toilet.
I send him a mental message to build in
the Holly or Spruce tree; I hope he is listening.
Oak had lost its Vandyke warmth.
In Spring, a new start will hide all birds;
for now, robin must seek other real estate.
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