If Woodpecker Still Drumming
by W. Wayne Lin

I always walk by that old oak tree.
He told me his age once.
I forgot.

I remember sitting on a wooden bench,
beneath his shade,
watching my four-year-old daughter play.

Then a new bench arrived,
when my grandkid wobbling,
clung to the armrest.

The last time my old man came,
we leaned there,
breathing with the root
above and below
the damp earth.

Tomorrow morning,
when I walk under the oak tree,
if I remember,
I will greet him like my childhood friend.
Regardless how old he is.



 

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