High on a hill stands an oak. It's limbs bare and stark against
The oak surveys the cold, somber, visage of its world. The
Once in awhile, the oak pauses and thinks of days gone bye and
The oak knows that it is better to feel lonely the bite of
From the East comes a glow. What is this thinks the oak? It
The light is a form. A man. A handsome vision. Where he walks
I opened my eyes to spring and the sight of a man so beautiful I
I now sit on the top of my hill and gaze to the West. Watching
I now leave behind this lonely hill of winter and go in search
the bleak winter sky. Braced firmly, locked with a rigid determination
to withstand the raging storms and gales of winter. All the remains of
what once was. Needing no one. Asking for nothing.
barren hills with their scattered clumps of dried grass, bending in
submission to the cold wind as it forms the snow into ordered drifts
from horizon to horizon. A landscape defined in black and white. And
the oak stands firm. Needing no one. Asking for nothing.
of the grave at its feet, the tomb of the Romantic and the many years
she has slept there. No more laughter. No more joy. Only the world as
it is. And the oak stands firm. Needing no one. Asking for nothing.
winters icy winds, than the mortal pain of love. The wounds that pierce
to the sole and leave behind an agony that wraps body and mind in a web
so fine it cannot be seen, but a web so strong it may never be broken
from the inside. So the oak stands alone. Needing no one. Asking for
nothing.
comes into my world unbidden. Unasked for and possibly even unwanted.
It is a light. A soft golden glow that drives the shadows before it as
the wind drives the foam upon the sea. It illumimates the world with
colors. I see it as it was before. In days gone bye.
in my world winter recedes as a jackal would flee a lion and spring
follows as a young puppy would play at his heels. The hills are
majestically painted with fields of green and in his step springs a
carpet of flowers. The tree blossoms. The birds return and the sky
turns from a murky slate to a bright cobalt. He paused at the base of
the oak and looks at the form of the Romantic...and them softly touched
her.
could no more resist being drawn from my resting place than a moth could
resist a flame. I reached for him to tell him of my joy and the
pleasure he had brought into my barren life. But my hand passed through
him as though he were a dream. He said he must continue his search.
That he needed to find a hill with a lone oak tree at its crest and as
he turned to go I saw he too had the wound that only love could inflict
and I knew that he needed no one and would ask for nothing.
his glow as it fades with the distance. Hoping he will return..Knowing
he won't. I speak to the oak which is me and I say, come let us learn
to walk together. I will borrow your strength and caution and I will
loan you my joy and pleasure and we will travel the paths of the future.
of spring. And who know...someday I may find a hill with a lone oak at
its crest and at the base of the oak, the man I carry so fondly in my
thoughts. If he is there, and if time has allowed days gone bye to
fade, then perhaps we will search for spring together. Then we will
need each other and be able to ask for each other.
All text and images in The Central California Poetry Journal are copyrighted. Copyright by © by Scott Galloway 1996. All rights are reserved. See main Journal page for
copyright information.
Authors and poets submitting original materials to this journal retain all rights to their
original work, except those rights specifically assigned in writing to Solo Publications including the right to publish the submitted work in The Central California Poetry Journal. The poems on this page are copyrighted by the author.
Copyright © Valerie Larsen 1996.
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