The Old Oak Tree

The tangible sunrays cast their lights to haze, withering the moments in a day, but the moon foreshadows its hue of white across the darkness of the night. In the wooden trails under the moonlit hour, that old oak tree stood as a tower, bowing its head filled leaves to the ground, as though praying or royalty to be found. And the bark is elder, no longer a rich thick brown, but grayness is its coat who always frowns. The brittle roots and twigs overlap each other, The trunk was sturdy as a man but more care giving like mother. And the nature breath's chills the wood, from a solemn warmth to goosebumps who intrudes. The old Oak tree whimpers and woos from the leaves rustling a whisper to the boy who weaves his arms, and swings himself amongst the highest point. He sits to watch the beautiful join between the passage of the moon and the sun. The sky is stolen from the moon; the night be done. And the Old Oak tree, once again, overviews the day of the tangible tangerine sunrays cast their lights out of haze. And the little boy still sits until the sprinkle of rain and drizzles roam. He climbed down the gray old trunk and heads back home. And the old oak tree smiles, never so gleefully before. And wishes for the little boy to appreciate him once more.