by Peter Saint-Andre

Acorn-pummeled, the house withstands
The hail of overhanging oaks,
Whose outstretched arms had once stood guard,
Whose dried-up fruit lies deep now on the yard.

Likewise, the verdure of the lawn
(Green rug unfurled to greet the world)
Has turned to tawny brown and bare
Except where crabgrass clings, like tufts of hair.

Though droopy plants are nodding off
And parched earth cries for dew and rain,
The oaks stand strong (their roots run deep)
And life is merely lying low, asleep.

Peter Saint-Andre > Writings > Ancient Fire