Oak

A Dead Oak Tree (1830) by Carl Wilhelm Kolbe

The late oak sighs from without,

Its dark tendrils tossed in Autumn script,

Croaking tales first long and languorous

Then wind-wipped sharp and fanatical

Of winter moons and the leaves they pilfered.

Its arthritic effigy cracks the wan sky,

Austere if brittle, as of an ancient breed

Returned once more to lay claim,

To sink rooted teeth, into the flesh of the land.

Great ashen clouds descent upon the spot

As if conjured to battle by its intrepid harangue.

The rain pours thick and heavy,

Swelling the desiccated bark with Babylonian pride.

All about the forest scruff trembles

Under the oak’s hysterics.

Without warming, a stab of light

Pierces the old oaken giant trunkwise. 

A tremendous crack to concuss the heavens,

Drown only by the roar of undead rancor,

Heralds the oak’s final pronouncement,

A great gouge in the soft earth.

The oak sinks into the mud with a death rattle,

And smoke as a wayward spirit rises snakelike 

And settles low and still under the fragile night.