The Old Water Oak

A green waterfall of moss
flows down the uneven trunk
of the trinity of branches
grown together fused
into a single limb.

His natural cracks lined
deeper hues of grays and browns,
his bark freckled with pale bluegray
lichens covers his upward spreading branches
fanning out like an umbrella skeleton,
stretched under those emerald almond leaves.

I watch the sun shifting shadows
through his leaves, molting his skin
in warm shapes of light that move
with the breeze, and when the clouds
come, he is covered in darkness
like a shroud, but he is darkest
when it rains, stained in near black
tones of brown, he takes no cover
but stands in the rain.