I stand upon my windswept hill,
My leaves all gone but not my will.
So many years, so long ago,
Now winter coats my boughs with snow.
The squirrels run no more, how wise,
They snuggle deep and close their eyes.
The song of birds has changed again,
But quieter now, snow turns to rain.
I stand here looking cold, austere,
The last of many oaks, I fear.
There was a time in centuries past,
No question that I’d be the last.
My memories saw both hill and dale,
So thick with oaks, it made me quail.
But then I heard the sound of saws,
They needed us to fight their wars.
They started far beneath my hill,
Not caring they began to kill.
I saw my friends part one by one,
The shade had gone to please the sun.
I watched mankind’s brief stay on earth,
And tried to understand their worth.
I let my boughs reach to the sky,
They wait for warmth before I die.
I need my buds and then my leaves,
A cloak of green with twigs that weave.
Then when my sap has run its course,
I’ll gather strength and find my force.
Each year that’s passed I’ve feared for life,
Lest mankind wields his fatal knife.
Now peace has come. It makes no sense,
Around my trunk they’ve built a fence.
A plaque that shines like summer gold,
Tells one and all I’m centuries old.
A camera flash, a shout, a smile,
The people stop and rest awhile.
Perhaps mankind at long last sees,
That ethereal beauty, us the trees.