Live Oak

As woods surrender to the frost, there is a tree that won't let go. The live oak tightly holds its crown; it knows a wish, men wish to know. And yet this false and lasting green is costume and a bold deceit. Eternal life is quaint disguise, audacious in its vain conceit. Although the live oak clings to it, I know its life comes to an end. And one by one its acorns fall; its leaves are scattered by the wind. Thus men are so like evergreens, defiant till a final spring. But seasons or the woodsman's axe, at last must garner everything.