Stumbling through the tears and fears,
Falling into an old oak tree;
Rough the bark, straight the trunk,
A monument to stability.

A clinging hug of that rough bark
Not in worship, not in sentimentality;
But in acknowledgement of a fellow traveler
Traversing the road between birth and death.

Long has it stood here, before I was born.
Long shall it remain, barring fire or flood,
Hurricane or tornado, bugs, or other ills.
Does being alive convey selfhood?

If it could talk, what would it say
Of all the travelers who have passed this way.