old oak after an April's morning rain

you may observe how
when the rains shatter against
the grit of an oak trunk
it's dyed black from a morning's bluster
as a sinner's heart
and each twig tip dipped like a fountain pen
into a bottle of green ink-deep
as ocean bloom illumined by fingers of sun
is spent of vibrancy when it has traced symmetric lobes
by which you say for certain, "oak"

dispelled from such enchanting origin
through all the months the light is firm
is the business I have no care to note
where all the light goes in