Black Jack Oak

From little acorns big ol' poems grow.

 

Black Jack Oak

Mark Pearce (c) 2007

 

 

Ol’ Black Jack.

Son of a nut.

Leathered leaves and arms downcast.

You make an impression upon me.

 

Tall. Upright.

Your fissured mast supports

Thick canopy,

Casting hardest shade.

 

You, Oak. 

The impression of solidity and form

Applauding softly as wind blows.

 

In your presence

The sun reaches apex

And from a nearby church tower

A weighty toll marks twelve.

 

Your verdant bells are silent

Unless massaged by those invisible tendrils of air.

It is then your shufflings cradle the toll with murmur, 

Providing texture to what has become

An exceedingly fine day.

Author's Note

Not my usual heavy-lifting piece.

Reviews

[Periac]

i thought this was awesome
Ol' Black Jack. Son of a nut.Leathered leaves and arms downcast.
awesome............

[Not Afraid of Bruises]

I really loved this poem. the images were strong, well written

[Siddartha Beth Pierce]

A lovely write about nature and its spendor. I adore the line and comparison between the toll of the church bell and the sound of the Oak leaves. Nice, succinct write. Well done.
Light,
Siddartha