Old Oak Calls

Winter fog blurring the hills and lingering over the lake,
fresh snow dusting the trees,
a Celtic-feeling morning; it could be any time,
ancient or unfolding now. 
The night-before-dream stirred, 
not in sound or image but in sensation 
Old Oak murmuring. 
Yes, I say. 
And make my way through winter field,
human tracks joining that of deer and bear and 
dog next door, or maybe coyote. 
Old Oak stands. 
Their branches thick as young trunks 
Their roots rumbling deep and exposed 
where shore ends and lake begins. 
I see you. 
These are threshold days 
thin days 
old passing, new arriving 
soon. 
Drawing closer to their tough bark
I lean backward
giving my weight, 
surrendering fears. 
Old Oak, Ancient One 
You called me. 
Dare I imagine 
wisdom and strength, 
endurance and grace 
passing from cell to cell?
A New Year gift.