The old tree was blown off his knees two days ago, 

knees that still stand fifteen feet high,

feet still firmly fastened in the earth, 

 

the final lightening strike

pounding over my house,

like a broken and nasty muffler of the gods

driving the dogs whimpering to the porch. 

 

Several ton of oak lies at my feet now.

The fall took out another mature tree,

And stripped the limbs from several others. 

 

Leaves, bark and plowed dirt are still damp,

still smell of fresh wood.

 

And this old man is

succeeded already by

another from the same root.

 

A hungry restless baby

stretches greedy little fingers

fifty feet to the sky. 

 

Oak takes care of oak.