A Resting Place
An old oak branch caught my eye,
Twisted gnarl curled in a knot.
Fell on the ground partially rotted,
A piece of life – nearly forgotten.
Home to small lives hidden inside,
Beatles and worms, their tunneling hides.
Top pieces bleached by sun and air
Back side stained from resting earth.
Just a part of a natural scene
All things pass, part of this life’s scheme.
In twenty years, should I return,
And walk this forest, field, and dale.
The special branch will no longer be
Except in spirit on the trail with me.