Under the gnarled arms of the forgotten oak,
where time has carved its story in bark and root,
I sit, a quiet pilgrim to memory.
The wind hums through leaves like ancient tongues,
murmuring secrets of a world before my own—
of lovers who carved initials now weathered to scars,
of children who climbed to touch the sky,
of storms that roared and left their mark.

The oak does not ask for my name,
nor does it care for the weight I carry.
It stands, a sentinel of silence,
its roots gripping the earth like a promise.
I press my palm to its rough skin,
feeling the pulse of something eternal—
not life as I know it, but endurance,
a stubborn refusal to fall.

I wonder if it remembers the first sunrise,
the first rain that kissed its tender shoots,
or the first human hand that sought its shade.
Does it mourn the forest it once knew,
now swallowed by asphalt and steel?
Or does it simply exist,
unburdened by the ache of nostalgia?

In its shadow, I find a mirror—
my own roots, tangled and seeking,
my own scars, etched by storms unseen.
The oak whispers, though I cannot translate:
perhaps it speaks of resilience,
perhaps of surrender.
Either way, I listen,
and for a moment, I am not so alone.

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