There is an old oak tree, that sits alone by itself, on top of a steep hill
It’s branches once bore…many a leaf, much less now it’s old and ill
There was a time, many had come…enjoying its shade, a picnic, or a rest
Now, few visitors grace its presence, providing little shade, no longer at its best
In the fall, the leaves it sheds, are no longer, vibrant in their paled colors
It branches weak, on them squirrels no longer play, few climb…or bother
The birds no longer
flock to its branches, now weakened arms of age
Few people come to the lonely tree, only the old who are filled with sage
Something in common, these elderly friends, for old and frail they can barely see
Yet, comfort they find, in their parallel world, they feel the pain of the lonely tree
©Annette (Wengert) Tarpley
9/16/2023