Beneath the Ancient Oak

The air hangs still, a velvet drape,
Where ancient branches intershape.
The old oak stands, a silent king,
Beneath its shade, the earth can sing.

Sunlight spills in fractured gold,
On stories whispered, ages old.
The roots run deep, a hidden maze,
Through silent, unremembered days.

A single leaf begins its fall,
Ignoring gravity's soft call,
It dances slow, a final flight,
From sun-kissed green to earthy night.

Here, hurried thoughts begin to cease,
Replaced by quiet, simple peace.
The world outside, a distant hum,
Beneath the oak, I have become

Just bone and blood, and breath held deep,
Secrets the timeless stones may keep.
A tiny part of greater whole,
Nourishing the weary soul.

The bark is rough, a map of time,
A simple, patient, slow climb.
It asks no questions, makes no plea,
Just offers shade for you and me.

So let the noise and rush fade out,
And shed the worries and the doubt.
Beneath the ancient oak's soft gaze,
Find grounding in these silent days.