It's Still Life

In Waves

Down in the far field where
school boys play football,
where the occasional siren
or barking dog is heard,
where weather cuts limbs,
and rolls in waves and rivulets,
down there where weather
is a predator …

there once stood an old oak tree.

It sustained years of play,
and penknife love notes.
Huge and steady,
until it fell last week.
Spread itself like a blanket,
its roots reaching for the clouds
as if it strangely fell to earth.

 
As prose:

In Waves

Down in the far field where school boys play football, where the occasional siren or barking dog is heard, where weather cuts limbs, and rolls in waves and rivulets, down there where weather is a predator … there once stood an old oak tree. It sustained years of play, and penknife love notes. Huge and steady, until it fell last week. Spread itself like a blanket, its roots reaching for the clouds as if it strangely fell to earth.

It’s National Poetry Writing Month, which explains the surge in activity. I’m following three different sites generating daily prompts. Writers’ Digest Poetic Asides, the National Poetry Writing Month website (NaPoWriMo) and my old friend, Walt, over at Gnomes. All of these pieces are drafts.