Hi, ho, Wily Oak
who sits at Raven’s Point and sighs.
I have you at my knee this gray afternoon
when all the birds are elsewhere,
admiring the weave of other nests.
While it’s quiet, you and I, I wonder:
Do you ever tire of standing still
and putting up with nature’s endless shuffle?
The here and there, the back and forth, the sometimes-
friends? Of growing old in situ when all around
you moves and flies and romps and swims?
And plays and partners and explores?
And dare I say, enjoys?
But no, he quickly shook — not a wit.
Were it not for the immovable we,
the world would never make a home.
The Immovable We
Do you ever tire of standing still
and putting up with nature’s endless shuffle?
