zachary d street:

The World Beneath the Oak

The field in which the oak tree grew
Was strewn with stones and straw and sun.
Nothing rich or soft or rare was there,
Only the work his hands had done,
The browning stalks his scythe had sliced
And the salty sweat from his father's brow.
Though bareness was all there was to see
None of this seemed to matter now.
And as he crept inside the oak,
Lying in its hollowed base,
He began to dream of things unseen,
Things foreign to his sun-browned face.
He dreamt of lapis lazuli skies
Stretching above glassy seas
That stretched so endlessly beneath.
He dreamt of shimmering snow-capped trees,
And water rushing from mountain cliffs
That crushed all things that would not yield.
All of this he dreamt, and more,
Beneath the oak, in a barren field.

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