(Poem 126 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

The oak trees stand guard,
keeping bothersome reality
at bay, ensuring sanctuary
for these tireless artists of
word and story, providing
respite from judgment long
enough for imagination to
begin the process of creative
unfolding, for that is the
only way the art is born
fresh and raw, unfiltered.
Yes, the work of shaping,
peeling, whittling away the
excess will be done to perfect
and sculpt the mass into
something more palatable,
but the first bloody moments of
pain and relief, joy and confusion,
brilliant bursts of kaleidoscopic
invention spilled out into the
universe deserve to be protected.
The oak trees understand
their assignment and take their
oaths very seriously, and for
their loyalty, I am grateful.

@The Writing Barn: Buddha Hall – 126^th poem of the year