Bending, leaning, bearing up so many years, <br />Looking to fall – but stronger than stone! <br />By the stony brook, he stands alone. <br /> <br />His age is like that of the mountains of stone. <br />His hands are like talons with thousands of crooks, <br />Stooping under years over the sluggish brook. <br /> <br />In the dark before dawn, his head bows. <br />Low and defeated, ‘t would first appear. <br />But nay, ‘tis a maestro who hunches here! <br /> <br />And then – <br /> <br />A ray, a single beam, from the black horizon, <br />And his perpetual hand is lifted dramatically, <br />His thousand fingers crooked emphatically! <br /> <br />Up, up, the hands of the knotted one beckon! <br />And from the horizon, a chorus arises, <br />Violins break into prelude reprises. <br /> <br />The hands wring every breath from the sky, <br />Bringing forth light of scarlet and white <br />To drive back the darkness, to combat the night! <br /> <br />The cellos break loose with the trumpets behind <br />As the hands wrench the sounds and summon the light, <br />A feast for the ears and a fortune for sight! <br /> <br />The music resounds, but still is not done. <br />The gods are awakened and even great Zeus <br />Strums a great lyre to shake the world loose! <br /> <br />The hands! They strain in their final command, <br />They stretch and bow amid clanging carillon <br />And with the power of ages they summon the dawn!<br /><br />Sophia White<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/old-oak-tree-3/
