He was a country squire, that old, stately oak.
Each time a breeze stirred his brown, brittle leaves
I was certain that he spoke. I listened close,
for his words were well disguised by the weeping
of wound and worry, the grind of sand and time.
Yesterday, the old tree came down as I watched
from across the street. And, I raised my jar high
to his voice in my mind - Farewell. Blessed be.
The Sunday Whirl words for Open Link Monday at Real Toads