Despite the winter doldrums,

this columnar English oak resists

shedding last year’s sheath of leaves.

 

Posed at the edge of the parking lot

and overlooking the river, this tree

punctuates the entire village.

 

I admire its grip on the planet,

its poise. You deplore its lack

of seasonal angst, its refusal

 

to bare itself to the elements

to which we all pay homage.

The tree rustles in its drapery,

 

the river chuckles in its bed.

Cars maneuver in and out

of parking spaces. Refueled

 

with coffee and chat, we leave

the tree in its odd state of grace

and take our human pretense home.