Sitting Under This Five Hundred Year Old Oak, With Its

Trees Sitting under this five hundred year old oak, With its massive branches whose girths rival Even the largest trunk of any other tree in sight, I close my eyes and envision Powhatan, Weary from an inland trading excursion, Resting under its then modest shade after quenching His parched mouth and cooling his sunburned Face and neck in the nearby natural spring That bubbles up clear and pure through stone from Unfathomable and mysterious caverns Deep below these gently rolling hills. Lying here as I open my eyes from this dream, Turning my head first to the right and then to the left, Absorbing the full majesty of this oak’s expanse, That is, I am told, broader than any other oak in Virginia, It occurs to me that this is a Swiss Family Robinson tree, As I recall the wondrous tale my mother read to us at bedtime As my sister and brothers and I, huddled in our pajamas Under the steeply sloped roof of our tiny home’s upstairs bedroom, Conjured up images of tree dwelling and primitive survival, And dreamed of shipwrecks and islands fraught with danger, And counting 1000s between the lightening flash and the thunder clap. Closing my eyes again I see Pocahontas Tugging at her father’s deerskin robe, urging him to lift her High in the branches of this growing giant So that she can grasp a limb and pull herself up And go scrambling about its wooden roadways scaring squirrels, And peering curiously into the robin’s nest at the smooth, sky blue eggs That soon will hatch and release hungry chicks who will clamor For worms from mother’s beak and slowly grow from featherless freak To soaring wonder weaving through branches of this or another Great oak to find that perfect spot where two branches diverge and Create a quiet nook ideally suited for a nest of twigs and grasses. Awakening I can hear the laughter of children And the applause and smiles of parents called out one day Under the shady tree in our side yard to see how the show We had scripted from the fertile seeds of imagination And years of watching the Jerry Lewis Labor Day telethon Had somehow resulted in one of the tree’s branches Dipping ever so closely to the ground as we played at trapeze, And made our mother smile because she had been asking us kids If we had been swinging on tree branches, but we hadn’t wanted To spoil the surprise of the big show so we innocently denied the deed That became so readily apparent as we sailed through the air on that branch. Drifting away I am carried back to a time of revolutionary zeal, When beneath the boughs of this towering giant, That began to hint at their eventual grandeur by stretching wide And hugging the ground because their tremendous weight Was too much to defy gravity and bend skyward, Patriots of colonial Virginia likely sought repose after Fighting loyalists and armies of King George In neighboring plains and fields with ammunition and weapons cast In nearby forges by skilled hands who had brought their families To the new world to seek a freedom and opportunity That was worth the sweat and blood and lives of a noble generation.

Smiling, then, I stir to the memory of three naughty brothers Crouching behind the big maple tree in the farthest, rear corner Of the large yard that surrounded the small house, Who in childish defiance at mother’s refusal to honor a whim Decided to run away from home one day and find freedom And were told that running away was fine as long as they Stayed in the yard and within eyesight And were back in time for supper when dad got home from work But, who ran away without planning, and getting hungry Sent back in the smallest brother for food because they knew Mom wouldn’t tell her baby no when he asked for cookies. Fading again in revelry of time too far past to remember I see brothers across a geographic divide of north and south Trudging over these slopes and through these trees Seeking a quiet, shady oak under which to rest their legs And clean the weapon whose long, smooth barrel Dealt out death to charging Yanks or Rebs on Blood stained pastures and hillsides where in previous summers Gentle cows grazed on the rich green grasses shot up Through fertile soil on which corn and beans and strawberries Grew so abundantly and freely on land that now received the Dead and wounded as they tumbled to earth pierced by leaden balls. Coming back to modern day I see the neat line of black walnut trees Along Farmer-Mark Road where each fall we made an excursion To collect the fallen walnuts, still tight within their bright green husks, And took them home to lay them out in the sun on the gravel driveway So that in time the husks would soften and turn brown, Signaling that the nut within was ripe and ready to be shed of its Acrid covering that no matter how hard we tried left a dark Walnut stain on our hands that took weeks to wear off, While the nuts that we had so carefully cracked and plucked From their sharp wooden shells were partly gobbled and partly set aside for use In mom’s homemade fudge and holiday cookies. Then through mist I see the frolicking children In petticoats and britches trying to join hands and make a circle Around this massive trunk to dance a rite of spring That has been pent up inside these anxious imps Patiently awaiting the melting of the snow from off these Undulating hills that made for thrilling sleigh rides Followed by fireplace huddles and hot cocoa In the grand stone house that stands as a sentinel Together with this towering oak over this ancient ground That has housed plantation owners and slaves and now Plays home to a Project named HOPE. Then in cascades the other trees of my childhood flash by, The small elm that shaded the natural spring Where we filled empty milk jugs with clean, cold water, And the big, shady tree, as we kids called it, that Unbeknownst to us housed a bees’ nest that we disturbed one day, And the row of trees on Buckskin Road, a finish line for foot and bike races, And so I see the hopes and dreams conjured in the mind By trees that surrounded me and grounded my existence And forged a connection with the bark and branches and leaves Of trees small and great, trees to scale, swing from and dream under Of distant lands and someday climbing high enough to touch the sky. Steven D. Dorsey August 11, 2006