It stood there straight and tall

With limbs and leaves and shade for all

No one knew its proper age

Or the many seasons it has waged

It was just a tree, of Oak descent

That few remember the hours spent

Setting under it's summer shade

A cool place on the hottest of days

Will we know its age when we count the rings

Will we know the limbs lost every spring

For whatever reason, this year has taken its toll

To leave the memory of the seasons it has known.

James H. Wilson