Poetry

by Scribes Stories · 1 min read · 3 views

What the Old Oak Knows The oak in the yard has outlived three dogs, one marriage, and every fence we ever built around it. It does not hurry. It has never once hurried, not through drought, not through the year the lightning took half its crown and it simply grew sideways instead, stubborn and unbothered, as if falling over were never actually one of its available options. I used to think patience was a virtue you had to practice. Now I think it might just be what happens to anything that lives long enough to stop mistaking a hard season for the whole story. The oak does not know it is wise. It only knows how to stay planted through every version of weather that once looked, briefly, like the end of something.