Down at the furthest corner of our land, beneath a rocky outcrop that juts over the wooded creek below, a lone oak grows. I don’t know how old it is. It is small, as though stunted by the weather and the rocks, anchored precariously into the slope and split in two at its base, its twin trunks wrapped with ivy as thick as my wrist, and it heaves bravely against the wind. But it must have seen many storms.
The Oak and the Christmas Rose
The Oak and the Christmas Rose
The Oak and the Christmas Rose
Down at the furthest corner of our land, beneath a rocky outcrop that juts over the wooded creek below, a lone oak grows. I don’t know how old it is. It is small, as though stunted by the weather and the rocks, anchored precariously into the slope and split in two at its base, its twin trunks wrapped with ivy as thick as my wrist, and it heaves bravely against the wind. But it must have seen many storms.