The Oak

This is my (somewhat sentimental) poem that appeared on my personal blog a while back. It uses the same pattern as Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost--whatever that rhythm is called. At any rate, here it is. Hope it isn't too sappy.

An Oak once stood alone up here,

Upon this hill where we now stand.

Its roots were deep; its bows were long,

And cracks ran up and down its skin.

I used to sit below the bows;

The leaves would whisper happiness,

And as the night began to come,

Its bows would look like spider webs

Cut out against the fading sky.

And I would smile and fall asleep.

And then one day a great storm came

And blew the tree until it fell,

And as it fell I dreamed it said

“Do not fear nor grieve for me

For whence I came I’ll come again,

Another tree will stand up here.”

Now look down near your foot and see,

The young oak tree begins to grow.

And long from now the oak will stand

 And you will sleep under its limbs.