The oaks that live beyond a hundred years
will not get bored as we are prone to get,
nor will they fall in love or quake with fears,
nor will they have a dog or cat as pet.
Yet still I feel that they have souls like us,
though they will not make artworks as we do,
nor will they speak with lofty words or cuss,
or sing and dance in woods a pas de deux.
They only silently will stretch toward light
and plunge deep roots in yielding ground as well,
serene and unconcerned with earthly plight
as roots, and trunks, and branches slowly swell.
Crows may fight in them and yell, “Caw! Caw!”
but seeing them fills me with peace and awe.
Mario A. Pita