Two Aging Oaks

I’m beginning to remember what I’d previously forgotten
about you and I, about them and it.
“It” being life. Existence--for what it’s worth.
We were the seeds of “it”, of life.
Scattered onto soil, sometimes rocky and barren,
other times moist and fertile.
We were forced to grow, made to sprout roots
and weave them into the ground.
“It” makes the sun burn and the clouds rain.
“It” makes us desire to grow.
“It” makes us crave to have a purpose.
And so we grew, matured within ourselves
From sapling to tree, we enjoyed the process of becoming.
Our roots were firm, our bark was smooth
and our enormous branches flourished with leaves.
But then they came.
They are unlike us.
They are thieves.
Many wings of ravens open out like umbrellas
circling our tree tops, cawing with delight
as they take up residence on our branches.
They peck at our bark.
They snap off our twigs
They build their flora nests here.
Our roots have aged, our bark has hardened
And our branches are weaker than ever.
But I have no doubt that there will come a day
when the ravens won’t utter a sound,
when the skies will clear,
and their nests will fall to the ground.