There is a tree out in the field.
Alone it stands on a slight rise.
A massive oak. Old with knowledge
and wily wise of snows and wind.
In summer sun his leafy arms
shade the cows as they linger there
chewing languidly, peaceful repast…
One last request my spirit makes
as it leaves this poor clay dwelling,
that I be one with yonder tree.
For heaven resides in that oak
that overlooks God’s handiwork
of field and stream and country things.