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Ever since this old oak fell more than a week ago, I knew it had a poem to give me. I have learned and continue to learn to wait for writing. First, I walked down to the empty lot where it lay and took pictures. I played with Instagram for the one here. Then I sat with a favorite poet, Mary Oliver. Mary doesn’t fail me. I felt like we were writing side by side. I opened her book, Red Bird, to the poem Night Herons, and one line jumped off the page, “what do we know/ except that death/ is so everywhere and so entire–” Using her form of four lines per stanza and borrowing this line, I wrote a poem about the tree.
An oak tree
fell in the night
while we were sleeping,
unknowing.Its body broken
by invisible flames,
trunk separated
from leaves, from life.Happy resurrection fern
clings, even as
clouds form
rain again.This keeper of stories,
survivor of hurricanes,
fell in a summer storm,
just tired, I guess.That was the end of growing
as we know it, yet
what do we know
except that deathis so everywhere and so entire–
culling and clearing,
sometimes taking
an old friend.One strike, one boom,
and the lot fills up
with sprawling branches.
How longwill we walk by
and watch the decomposing?
How long until the chainsaw
destroys?Until then, I will stay
pray to this sacred sculpture
and to its sculptor:
Rise and sow again.
Reflections on the Teche 
Love the thoughts here! It is hard to see an old friend fall and be gone so quickly after years of standing so strong. Thanks for sharing your poem.
Well done, Margaret. I agree that sometimes you have to wait for the writing to come, but I also believe that it comes more easily to those who write frequently. I’m glad this one came to you and that you shared it with the rest of us.
You make a very important point, that to be ready when it comes, we must sit everyday. Thanks for reading!
Luv it, girl. Later I’m going to share a link to a piece I blogged in 2005 after a prewriting session at Beau Chene HS under that magnificent chenier in front of the school. Must be a La. Oak thing: even Walt Whitman “saw in Louisiana a Live Oak growing, uttering joyous leaves of friendship.”
Thank you for sharing not only your poem but your process. Lovely.
Beautiful words! Love the phrase “keeper of stories” – hadn’t really thought of trees that way. But they certainly are.
Poignant story of your tree & of your writing. I love this verse:
This keeper of stories,
survivor of hurricanes,
fell in a summer storm,
just tired, I guess.
It speaks to me of older family members who didn’t have a sad death like of cancer or something outrageous. I think they were just tired. Thank you for a beautiful post.
I love this– living in the South Carolina Lowcountry I can relate to the story of this old oak that has survived so much. I especially love how you wove Mary Oliver’s words into your own poem in a new way– it gives a nod to her but also shows how every reader brings a bit of themselves to a piece of writing, making it a bit their own as well. This is such a valuable lesson for us to share with students– studying the craft of favorite writers to help us find our own voice and style. Thanks for sharing!
Borrowing another line, “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.” There’s a time to grow as this tree did for so long, and, sadly, a time to die as well. There’s a time to write, too. You waited, the time came, and your words are full of meaning. Thank you for finding the time.
[…] through a book of poetry, you find a line that jumps out and wants you to write about it. My post Fallen Oak came about when I borrowed a Mary Oliver line. The line I used today was Richard Hugo’s […]
[…] for me is to borrow a line. I have done this a number of times to jump start a poem. See The Day, Fallen Oak and also in the poem from the 30 Day Challenge Blackberry […]
Margaret, I’m glad that you resurrected this poem and I found it on Laura’s post/comments today.
Thanks, Carol. I love making connections across the miles.
Margaret, thank you for bringing me to this poem. I love the way that poems (Mary Oliver, your poem, the downed tree poem that I shared last week) enter into a conversation with one another.