Fallen Oaks

Sometimes the tree,
Is just too damaged,
To be saved,
And no amount,
Of work,
Will keep it standing.
Sometimes the ancient wounds,
Have rotted out the heart,
And all that’s left,
Is the illusion,
Saying there,
Is strength.
The damaged heart,
Only revealed,
When it has fallen,
And then too late,
It leaves,
No useful timber,
Just the scar,
Of wasted space,
Where better trees,
Deserves the right,
To flourish.
Nothing can save,
Or heal,
A mighty oak,
If when a sapling,
It was scarred.
Nothing remove,
The canker or the cut,
Good management,
Would see it rooted out.
Better that way perhaps,
Than risk another,
Lose some better limb,
Or trunk,
Or branch,
In its falling,
Tossed by storms.
The better hope,
For oaks like these,
Is in the space,
It leaves behind,
Some stronger tree,
Can thrive,
And in returning,
Back to soil,
Give back the little,
It has left.



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