a sonnet written ten minutes before it was due . . .

Sisyphus Under The Oak


I considered the oak, lively, defiant
Its massive arms stretched in victory
And wondered at how such a sprawling giant
Could with such elegance mock gravity
While roots black with peat, rot, and history
Claw mercilessly at the earth below
It remains a remarkable mystery
How sturdily its bulky branches grow
I sat in the lap of the old live oak
Between its gnarled and knotted knees
And listened to its melancholy croak
And smiled because it sounded like me
It knows that all life is struggle and grieves
But in spite of death proudly shows it leaves