Ghost of an Oak

A poem in honor of an old oak tree that was cut for convenience and vanity.

It is true what they say
About men's pleasures
How short his day, 
And what he sees as treasures

I was born in the glade
From a seed so small
A miracle was made
When the acorn did fall

Wind did blow
And tucked me to bed
In Earth's bosom below
It covered my head

Water wet and sweet
Over me did seep
Until my heart beat
And woke me from sleep

Tall and strong I matured
High in the sky I stood
Till my head the clouds covered
And the breezes tickled me good

As I watched from my sentinel station
The days of men passed on
Roads they built to cover my basin
Wars raged and then were gone

A town around me thrived
And children in me played
With the breeze my branches sighed
And whispered goodnights I bade

He carved on me his pride
Though tough was my bark
With sap I wept and cried
But his passing did he mark

To an old man gave I shade
And squirrels climbed my side
A home for birds I made
And a cricket did I hide

So Man lived with me around
For more than a hundred years
But not one of them was found
To calm my many fears

To build their wealth
Many my fellows were taken
The air trembled with their death
And the ground for them was shaken

How than can I tell?
For dim or brilliant fools
When me they did fell
All to keep clean their damn pools