There was the day
you knew to call it an oak
as it towered gently over you.
Gentle because it is a comforter,
and old — shade and wisdom
like our grandparents,
Beneath, a child like me,
is a broad-leafed tree I do not know,
despite rustling the pages
of the field guide.
It carries large flat leaves
with three distinct lobes but no
rough edges — varicose veins,
it seems stressed, tired by life.
And above that but before the sky,
touching canopy is, I think, an ash tree.