The Oak Tree
with echoes of Joyce Kilmer


I think that I shall never see
a greater presence than this tree,
the tallest oak on my small place,
a monument to strength and grace.

This stalwart one, the squirrels' abode,
so cozy when it's rained or snowed,
is crucial in the Lord's grand scheme
and worthy of my high esteem.

He lifts his arms up to the sky
and bids me keep my spirits high.
I sit outside  near him some days
for hours and bask in sun's bright rays

while writing lines of tribute to
the majesties within my view.
Such lines are made by fools like me,
but it took God to make this tree.





Soar


Her eyesight has begun to fail.
Soft-spoken words she cannot hear.
Though once quite strong, she now is frail.
She feels her final sunset near.

Though sights and sounds that thrill her heart
are growing dim, she feels so blessed.
When senses only serve in part,
her lively mind's eye sees the rest.

She relishes a balmy breeze
when roses bloom on warm spring days
and trilling birds perch in the trees 
before they rise and soar away.

She ponders immortality
rejoicing that, when on the wing,
her soul will hasten to be free
in Heaven with the saints to sing.