(On Saint Simon’s Island, Georgia)
We drive, then walk to see wood-faces
In various and sundry places.
To find each visage is a feat:
A public park or private street
Or shopping center is the scene
Where art reveals an old oak’s mien.
It seems a tree which lost a limb
Was subject to a carver’s whim,
But nothing finished years ago
Continues to appear nouveau.
All oaks, however ancient, strive
To heal, to grow, to stay alive,
So any carvings shift or fade,
Become encroached upon or splayed.
In one, some birds have built a nest,
Their recent business manifest.
