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