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The International Magazine of Poetry & Graphics ▪ Bi-monthly ▪ March/April 2008
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The tree stands where his seed was sown,
By Father Oak, who died outright:
He stands where he has always grown,
In gloried day and shrouded night.
And, next that oak, the smaller bay,
Her beauty seen and noted by
The many that have passed and loved
Her silhouette against the sky.
For decades these have grown as one,
Though seeming not to throw a glance,
Hands waving at the selfsame sky,
And swaying, in their joyful dance.
Their oneness is their purpose still,
The destiny received from God,
For each does with the other thrill
And touch beneath the leafy sod.
Above, they seem as accidents;
Below, they’re destiny:
The oak and bay together find
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