Last week I saw a huge oak tree in front of a small white home on a hill on a country road. Today I was thinking how people can be like that oak tree, time passing, parts of our body giving up, but still we keep living. I made up the man’s life.


Still Here

It stands in solitary splendor
in a field of green,
a grass driveway worn thin
from the old man who comes and goes
in a small truck kept
for errands,
or so he says.

It has watched and grown
as the man has watched and grown,
a wife, children,
grandchildren,
a picnic on a summer’s day
under its shade.

Perhaps it has a scar or two
from sleds sliding down the hill
from home to country road,
a country road once quiet,
now busy with traffic,
headlights sweeping past at dusk
as people and passengers pass by.

One third is now dead,
branches without leaves,
a skeleton against the dusty blue sky
with just a touch of green left,
saying
I am still here.




Poetry by Melinda K Zarate The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 11 times
Written on 2026-09-02 at 19:43

Tags Aging  Trees  Time 

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