In a field where silence folds the breeze,
Stands the oak with timeless ease.
Its roots run deep in earthen lore,
A sentinel of days before.
Its bark is rough, like stories told
By elders wise and weathered bold.
Each ring within its heartwood core
Marks seasons passed, and so much more.
It does not chase the fleeting sun,
Nor race the wind, nor seek to run.
It simply grows, with patient grace,
A monument to time and place.
Birds have nested in its arms,
Children played beneath its charms.
Storms have bowed but never broke
The quiet strength of ancient oak.
So let us learn from limbs that bend,
From shade it gives, from wounds that mend.
For in its stillness, we may see
The soul of steadfast mystery.