The old oak tree is worn and
tired.




His bark is
scratched
and
Weathered.

He is curved and bent.
Marked from years of


growing
Through



Wind.






And rain.









And sun.



He is a
writing slate.


Names of past lovers are
Carved
into
his
skin.
Stories.




Heartbreak.


Or happily-ever-after.
Who can tell?



He is a hideaway.






A fortress.
For the young




and the young at heart.
Tears are absorbed in his bark.









Laughter has









B o u n c e d off his leaves.
He sings

as the wind
whistles through



His branches.



I tell him my troubles




My triumphs







My fears.
He listens well.







The years have made him wise.

He helps me
Find
the
answers




Inside

Myself.



Go to him
when you are
lonely.



When the day just seems
















Too long.
He will give you peace.








Comfort.












Protection.






He will listen to your secrets








And n e v e r tell.
And maybe even




















tell you his own.