The twisted tree that stood on the edge
of what was called Mason's Wood
-- who Mason was I never knew --
kept trying to tell me something.
Stunted yet strangely stately,
it would not let me pass,
demanded my observation every time,
compelled my contemplation.
Why, alone among its companions,
had its shape been bent,
its branches reaching out
at such odd angles?
Had its deformity been there
at its beginning? Or did
some calamity befall it,
whipped it, tore it, wrenched it?
Not all oaks grow tall and true:
was that its message? Some must
and can overcome batterings.
I am like you, it seemed to say.
You've had your share of shakings.
So have I.
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