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The Tiny Oak

People often ask me, "How long have you been writing?" Well... I wrote this one back in 1998, so I guess it's been two or three decades. A long time, for sure.

The Tiny Oak

by BM Simpson

I closed my eyes

and dreamed a field

with trees and hills and skies so blue.

In the field, amongst the grass,

beneath the clouds,

above the earth

was a beautiful,


baby oak.

In my dreams as seasons passed,

the tiny oak stood amongst the grass,

with a childish, soaring soul.

So young and brave,

and full of life,

but not yet mighty.

Not yet bold.

The mighty trees were not far off.

They towered near the clouds.

The tiny oak, he stood in awe

of what,

he could not know.

To be…to be…to be like them.

That is what I want to be.

To tower high towards the clouds,

to touch eternity.

To hold the winds within my leaves,

for birds who call me home.

To toss my acorns on the ground.

To crack and creek and moan.

To be…to be…to be like them,

that is what I want to be.

Whiskers rough and axe in hand,

with sweat upon his brow,

boldly entered a worldly man

to make the oak trees bow.

And bow they did

and fall they did


upon the ground.

A mighty whoosh.

A mighty crash.

They no longer made a sound.

The tiny oak

stood amongst the grass

still and silent,

and so aware,

while the mighty man

who swung the axe

and cloaked himself in hair,

took only bold and mighty oaks.

He spared the youthful trees,

with trunks so tender,

and branches bent,

and leaves so vibrant green.

To be young and meek

and full of life

with visions not yet seen.

To be…to be…to be like that

is what I want to be.

I close my eyes and dream of times

when I’m writing at my desk.

Words of peace and war and love,

on paper they do rest.

I write of lands

reaching far and wide,

and kingdoms with riches vast.

I write of times

which have not come,

and long forgotten past.

It is my haven,

It is my harbor,

my sacred, solemn retreat.

It is where I go

to ask,

to answer,

to dream my dreams so sweet.

My mighty desk,

my oak wood desk,

with hand carved edgings,

and drawers with treasures,

and surface as hard as glass.

It’s golden grain boldly sustains

the nearly forgotten past.

Who would have thought this magnificent desk

was a seedling in a field.

So fragile and tiny and beautiful.

oh how the time does yield.

The tiny tree beneath the sky,

slowly reached toward the clouds.

It held the winds and birds and rain

till it fell upon the ground.

Oh tiny oak,

oh mighty oak,

Oak that comforts me.

I thank the Heavens,

I thank the Earth,

for the Oak which came to be.

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