Oak

He stood there in that field for decades,
maybe centuries.
Served by his people,
his congregation.
They tended him and cared for him
in exchange for the blessings he gave them,
he supposed.
Though he didn’t really do anything special,
just live; but
it must be said that he relished their adoration

Now this new power had entered his field.

His flock was outraged at the usurper.
A man approached him with ax and bare arms.
How was he supposed to defend his people,
let alone himself?
They were the ones who did everything for HIM.
Was he supposed to summon lightning?
He couldn’t even drop a branch on the man’s head with his own power.

The first couple of blows barely broke the bark.
A small crack formed, then chips of wood exposed a wedge.
Before he could even feel a thing or begin to worry,
a giant gale rose up
blew him down, and
broke him in four.

Now he is a wooden building.
And no one worships him anymore.


Poetry Scales 205