The Oak in the Woods

The oak is old, as are its stories.
Its prized branches yield dwelling,
asylum. An observatory
from which to monitor activity,
threats, perhaps potential sustenance.
A sense of peace, security.
A sense of awe.

Memories of challenges, games.
Who dares climb higher?
Wanna play Tarzan?
Bet you don't dare eat an acorn.
Hey! Let's build a tree fort.
We can hide up there all day,
or until Mom rings the dinner bell.

Initials etched in bark tell tales
of young lives since gone.
Others, like yours and mine, still here.
Nails from the homemade ladder
jut from rugged bark.
There am I, like my father before me,
and his father, long gone.
Carved into history until
this living book of memories
has fallen.