I peer into his face, an ancient oak,
Both gnarled and weathered older than his years.
This split here is where lightning bit and broke
His youth and colored once fair skin with smoke,
And wrenched his heart until it brought out tears.
This riven limb where children climbed to swing
Beyond his bent to tolerate their weight,
Now mended as an awkward, knotted wing
Where only small birds might gather to sing
Their lively songs—an ironic gift of fate.
This thick burl-band, where someone sought to saw
Him down, perhaps for firewood or to sound
The strength of their toothed blade against his brawn,
But cut just deep enough to leave a maw
For blood to flow and scab up the thumb-thick wound.
A heart-shape’s scraped away into the bark,
And three words whittled with a pocket knife
Endure within. Incised deep and aged dark
Are: ROBERT LOVES ELINORE, which remark
As fit a verse as might pronounce his life.
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