Lone Tree Rages

From some forgotten cache,
a bur oak, scrawny, stunted
humble and tawny, high
on the red sheer palisade,
twists the moon into shards
and shattered pearl.

Raked by the ever wind,
a bur oak –
cleaved into cloven rock
abhors this fisted moon –
its waning wandering wax –
such mockery of clinging.

Sprung from some forgotten cache,
a bur oak rails against it’s own
stripped rippling arms,
as if to proclaim and rightly:
I, alone upon this rock,
hold the blackest gray squirrel –
that hoarding, heaving vermin –
to account on this crooked,
blighted night.

Image: Tamar Waskey on Unsplash