A Generation

Poem

A tree spreads it's branches, an Oak.

Branches dip to the ground, a kind scene.

The child me, holds down on one such.

Pulling and tugging, hands of stained green.

Shrugs with the wind, the sound of a ruffle.

The clatter of leaves, the clutter of them all.

The result a murmurous rub and scuffle.

 My ears hear the groan, of a tree so tall.

Tree dose not move, it never takes step.

And it never toils from its own root.

Sway it dose move, and it waves to and fro.

Permanently fixed, it's arms spread and chute.

A Generation comes, and then goes away.

Years go bye, and days take a walk.

An oak stands in memoir, of awl in delight.

Tree stands in splendor, a magnificent gall.

Grown and boldly withered, we both can stand.

The child me looks near, now as a man.

A tree in it's glory, and a man in his prime.

A Generation of Branches, sprout once again. 

Author's Note

Insight Me Please ?