Looming over the burned-out house is an oak tree,
Hundreds of years old at least.
The smell of smoke is gone, but skeleton of the house remains,
A mere speck when compared to the tree.
Whose branches reach out to me like hands,
Begging for me to come closer.
I sit under the tree like I did when I was young.
The ground is damp from the rain,
I feel the sogginess soaking through my jeans.
It is cooler under the branches,
A limitless amount of leaves shades me from the daylight.
I stay there. All day.
Staring at the charred remains of my childhood home.
I stay there until fog begins to form in the crisp night air,
Cold and sharp against my cheeks.
No longer able to withstand the cold, I take my leave looking back once more.
It's nice to know that even when I'm gone,
The old oak tree remains.