OAK

The hardwood trunk has pushed aloft in the air.
It’s had its life of birds and squirrels, rain
And snow, wind and calm, the blessings and banes
Of a woody existence. After a hundred years,

More or less, the time arrives for its dendroid
Life to be ended. The tree is felled and sawed
And split and dried and sold. From life in the broad
Vistas of air, this lowest stratum of heaven, splendid

And fated the tree is committed, coffined: two cords
At a time in my shed, then armloads to the woodbox,
And last (is anything last?) by pieces it stokes
The iron casket stove, its due reward:

Transfiguration in nature’s masterstroke–
A cosmic cycle from acorn to oak to smoke.

(83, February 10, 1993)

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