I
lonesome oak on a hill



having outlived your peers



your progeny denied the light
by scythe and mower blade alike



II
it’s said you speak by pheromone
but no whiff is caught when alone
your words disperse unsmelt
lost across a manmade veldt



III
if it’s any consolation
you have our unflagging admiration
you’re the model of stately poise
to all the little girls and boys



who swing about your stout limbs