The Oak
I met an oak when I was younger. Even then, he was unshakeable. "Have you always been this way?" I wondered— so strong-willed and immovable. Surely you were young once, shapeable, not always standing so tall— offering shade and quiet strength to all who rested in your arms. Did the seasons try to break you? Did the summer sun scorch you raw, or the storms hurl insults through your limbs, trying to bend your resolve? Did you always face calamities with that silent defiance, daring them to do their worst? Were you always so rooted in principle, or were those roots grafted slowly, by a gardener’s guiding hand? I wish I could ask you now— but alas, you have been cut down.
