Oak

 Tall as canyon and just as framed, the oak remains actual. At parties, oak looms. Acorns aside, oaks are not hilarious: they stand. They stand for all the forevers left, and you could be cousin to the node. Expect oaks to be hounded and impervious. In politics, oaks sway with the release of the forgotten. The silver sliding sliver of light invents nemesis, also called fire, but that moment’s snap refers to ages of diligent oak. Oaks can tell you, tell you. An ageless, endless, amiable leaf flies while time makes a whole. Autumn becomes a suggestion. Pizzazz is a word oaks rarely assert: just too capricious in the fields of time. Human truncation accepts ellipses, serious whispers of rock argue sanctity, but oak booms the placement of the top of the sky. People haven’t bloomed well, the oak must persist. Please, go often to your oak. A manifestation proceeds to chancery. People lost in lodestar might ask why time seems so picante. Oak scorns drift.