The Mighty Oak

I am
In the fall of my years,
My leaves turning.
Weathered by the sun,
Beaten by the wind and rain;
I'm withering against the sky.
Once I stood tall,
         Proud,
                   Sheltering,
                             Protecting.
My roots of life now weakened.
My top bares my age,
More barren and brittle
With each passing season.
I'm full of youth about my limbs
(from my own seed and others).
I've seen the joy of sprigs,
The horror of many storm.
As disease sets in,
I ponder:
         Will I die,
                   The mighty oak
                             Of rot,
Or will they pull the plug?
...I wonder.