The Oak
Nov 1, 2023
This is the mighty oak. The direction it points is true, set on its unyielding base. Like a thick red neck bulging with veins, it refuses to turn but can be swayed.
In the chill of the morning we dressed for war and hid our jewelry in bundles of linens. We marched out because we believed, because we said “we need a king.”
We washed clothing and dishes in rivers and hid our children in the reeds. Still you found them and took them away and planted them beside the sea, to be large oaks of their own someday.
I struck my staff against the stone. Released the water to the valley below. Tangled tents and banners swept away, ribbons of red washed out clean. By the morning it had dried and what was left was the sand beneath my bare feet.
