The White Oak by Martin J. Elster

The White Oak

Rooted in the yard across the road,
. . . .it bore the chickadees,
. . . .bowed from a blizzard’s load,
stood up in April, quickening the breeze,

gave chipmunks and gray squirrels nuts to chew,
. . . .persuaded kids to climb,
. . . .gave shade when hot winds blew.
Who ruled it’s time to break it in its prime?

Who judged the ancient tree a monstrous pest
. . . .we must eradicate?
. . . .So what if orioles nest
amid its branches straggling in a great

and solemn shock? I’ve never seen it cower
. . . .from hurricane or squall.
. . . .Yet now, in a mere hour,
mad, slashing, snarling fangs will make it fall,

indifferent to the katydid, opossum,
. . . .the sparrow, butterfly,
. . . .or cricket when they toss ’em
away—to fly, to scamper off, or die.

by Martin J. Elster

Editor’s Note: This poem’s easy meter belies its message of habitat loss and the pressure of human industrialization, setting up a juxtaposition of imagery and craft that hammers home the message all too clearly.