The old oak.

Our beloved oak still stands.
Its leaves they rustle in the breeze,
And its bark sometimes falls.

It has dead end branches,
As though life didn’t get that far.
They stand out against the tree,
They show that beauty still dies.

Our oak stands in a lake,
Perhaps it drinks and drowns,
Sometimes it’s green and luscious,
Sometimes it’s bony and dry.

Our beloved oak tree still stands,
Its leaves rustle in the breeze,
And its bark sometimes falls.