An old oak tree warps and lurches upwards,
its body rooted in the ground,
a canopy of leaves unfolding above

Cracks, fissures and sharp grooves
are emblems of raging storms and wild winds:
past accidents gathered into its aim

A skin of moss envelops
gnarled, pockmarked bark:
a green balm healing the scars of time

Like strings of wool,
interlacing branches weave themselves
into a yarn of purposive purposelessness

The tree moves, creaks, breathes and pulsates
Its history is inscribed in rings of grain;
its future is held in unborn acorns

Not only nutrients but a strange calm
flows through the cambium,
opening to life, opening to itself