The Oak

The Oak I stand atop the mountain; The world is at my feet. I stand atop the mountain, Hearing Earth's heartbeat. The stream down in the valley, Travels its wayward trail, Bubbling along merrily, Flowing onward without fail. The birds swoop through the forest, And sing their sweet refrain, While the trees uplift their branches To drink the summer rain. The wildflowers in the meadow, Bloom with vivid life, The deer play in the clover, Never fearing strife. The world out here is lovely, Its heart beats steady on; It will continue onward, Long after I am gone. And if there is a heaven, And I can make it there, Let me become an oak tree, Where the wind blows through my hair. For life for man is troubled, And painful day to day, But life out here is different; They live a different way. No worries about feelings, Or reputation here. No cares for thoughts of others, No need for constant fear. Just food and drink and sunshine, Are the staples of their way, No need to cry, and greive, and stress; No need to hope or pray. Just live life while you have it, And die when your time comes. And let the future generations, March to the same unknown drums. So if there is a heaven, I hope that it's this place. And I can grow, an oak tree, With the sun upon my face. If you become weary or broken, And life brings pain or fear, Just come out here, and sit with me, And rest against me here.