A Survivor

by SL Ruth

An ancient mighty oak
lifts burned branches aloft
bereft of leaves,
like an ancient Menorah
trailing wisps of smoke,
whispering secrets of wrongs;
wicks, not quite through burning,
from the candlesticks, melted
hot in sooty embrace of ash,
cover the field once lush with grass and flower.

The oak, all that remains of the green that was,
the lone sentinal to guard what is,
against the fire that begs for more;
unquenched tongues lick out searching,
threathening, but the Menorah
stands firm in charred and silken splendor.

No fire could destroy those strong roots,
a symbol of hope and courage,
the future can be seen through the tree
with stubbed branches still raised high
a survivor for the forest that will come again.