the oak tree

what do i gain from a thousand hopes, and a thousand wildred names,

what do i find in a thousand oaks, but a thousand different names,

etched in the bark, scraped in brutally,

so far, that the rings of years, are exposed,

so far that the only thing left concealed,

is a nestling of a hopeful sparrow in my bosom

so far that the tiny sparrow is only within an inch

of the very blade

that you wield.