A poem I originally wrote about when one of the Oaks on Toomers corner in Auburn was burnt, but I edited and finished it after the recent poisoning.
Tree on the corner
I am an oak
that lives
in green
through all seasons,
where two young
straight flat rocks
meet and combust
in blinking lights
and driving smoke.
My twigs intertwine
but never grasp
with another
whose roots
share my soil
below the rhythms
of travelers,
revelers
and the lost.
I have never been
to a Fall competition
and don’t know
what it is,
but the long white leaves
and the fire
have found me,
in frequent moments
over the years,
stinging leaves and bark.
My species
can last a millennia
and never see another
the same,
or never even grow past
the underbrush,
but in the storms
our branches
fall the same.
A tree in the forest
shelters, holds soil, and soars.
A tree on the corner is more significant
in human eyes and a target,
and a trampled idol.
Robert L. Jackson III
