Isn’t hope something that keeps us all alive? As humans, we’re all striving to get better, and to get farther tomorrow than we are today. Through this poem, I’ve explained how the old oak, who survived the bitter winter, never lost hope, and emerged victorious at the end of it all.
Come summer, the Oak flourishes,
Ready to share with the world its ripeness and riches.
The emerald leaves shiver to the scorching notes of the warm wind,
Summer breathes life into it.
The Oak is home to summer’s guests,
Insects delve deep into its rich bark,
While birds make nests.
A state of ripeness and pure perfection,
Life back from the dead, it’s the tree’s resurrection,
After the chills of winter, at its icy hands,
That deprived the land of any form of vegetation.
The Oak spreads its branches far and wide,
And its leaves sway to the wind with a graceful stride.
‘Summer should never leave’, the Oak prays,
It wishes to flourish under the sun’s golden rays.
Seasons pass, and things have changed,
The things that once took shelter under the oak’s bark,
Are now estranged.
The birds have now flown to warmer lands,
To elude the grasp of Winter’s icy, frosty hands.
“The cycle must go on,” says the Oak,
“And I must live through this stroke of ill-luck.”
The Oak stood tall and white,
With sheets of ice illuminating the moonless night.
“Light will come,” the Oak believes,
He hoped for happiness and for relief.
He knew that the birds that once lived on its branches would come around,
Small insects would be merry, and scurry across the ground.
He lived through Winter, and never lost hope,
Just like a shipwrecked sailor clinging onto a piece of wood,
Hoping to stay afloat.
Just then, the first rays of summer,
Poured in through the cotton-candy clouds,
Making the air warmer around,
Lightening up the cold, hard ground.
The first chirp of a bird was distinctly heard,
Ringing through the air.
The Oak welcomed its guests with open arms,
And its leaves began to dance.
Slowly, the insects began to peep out.
Out of exultation and delight, the Oak began to shout.
Summer was back,
Hope had seen him through, yet again.
And as it is rightly said,
Hope can paint black days yellow and red.
Hope can set every wrong right,
Just don’t let it leave your sight.
The Oak sighed with satisfaction,
And it beamed in exultation.
The Oak had survived the winter, hoping for moments like those,
As its life changed, from a prickly thorn,
To a beautiful, blossoming rose.