LIVE OAKS

live oaks


the live oak in the graveyard
in the morning mist
seemed like hands
reaching up to heaven
festooned with spanish moss
they looked like a dore etching
from dante’s divine comedy

yet in their agony of reaching
a sense of peace
quiet
strength
hope

as if to say
as if to give a voice
to those the tree feed on

i live
transformed
i live

the fog lifting
they showed the graves
of war dead

lives cut short
poems unbegun

rest in peace
rest in peace
rest in peace

the trees
are draped in sorrow
for the dead


frank a vollmer