when the old oakcrackedwith age,I heard its agonizingthunder. it looked larger than lifelying flat on itsbackdown the hillsideit used to tower. time of death is the bridgefor a little boy,the bench for a motherwith child,the strong arm shelteringbuttercups, a meadowbegins to form. I imagine it missesthe skyI imagine it yearns forthe wind,beautiful things did endtoo… Continue reading