the old oak tree

there is a fire within
that burns always
but is mostly
kept in shadows
i feel that fire now as i write
it provides the energy for my writing
without it i would have nothing to say
nor would i even try
i will write now
of a wish
of a will
of a way
or maybe wait till saturday
look beyond the green hills
to where memory
intercepts the moment
there are children at play
i suddenly understand
brilliant and beaming
is it really what i wanted to say?
did i tell you about
how i swept the floor today
and hung up bird feeders
and washed some dog blankets?
tomorrow i stretch
like a long bow
from the earth
to the sky
the arrow of my awareness
goes whizzing by
it lodges in
the old oak tree
which has watched me live
and will watch me die