Requiem for an Oak

A battle to save the life of a tree ended in the LCF Planning Commission meeting last week. Brutal pruning by a utility crew combined with an arborist's report of dubious merit spelled a death sentence for a century-old live oak. Here the tree's defender decries in poetic voice this erosion of the quality, dignity and sanctity of life in our community. C.F. LCF Planning Commission Agenda Report

Requiem for an Oak

An old oak grows, abused by all,
Its feet in bricks and concrete bound,
Now weeping, leaves and acorns fall,
On broken limbs upon the ground,
Disease, dry rot and wounds appall!
So silent now, there's not the sound,
Of children's play 'neath branches tall,
For parents scold, and seem to hound,
Lest sudden falling foliage maul,
Their house or offspring small, if found
Beneath it then. Best experts call!
Condemn that tree! It must be downed!

Midst brutal heat within my shade,
Both man and beast have taken rest,
A bed for them my leaves have made,
Where gentle breezes from the West,
Move whisp'ring grass of greenest blade.
These comfort found and so were blessed,
To stumble on this forest glade;
That by my roots they thought it best,
Their homes to build, and here they stayed.
Enticed by acorns, wild birds nest,
And multiply, eggs safely laid,
Their little ones hatch on my breast.

Resolved: Whereas the residents,
Determined that this tree is bad,
A threat to their establishments;
Objections heard; discussions had;
A final word with arrogance;
Unaninimous! No more we'll add;
It's all right here in evidence;
This living thing must die! How sad!
Ungrateful and entitled gents,
At times become stark raving mad,
With haste they judge, lack common sense,
In pride burn such as makes hearts glad.

My soul returns from whence it came,
Born of the earth, turns back to dust,
Cry not for me, I have no name,
No pedigree or line to trust;
Great forest oaks ruled here to tame,
Both floods and flames, yet surely must,
Give way to human progress, fame,
Though passing like a storm, unjust,
And false in every deed and claim.
I leave behind not greed and lust,
But fertile land where once was shame,
And fresh, new growth t'ward heaven thrust.

Through winter deep, when nights are long,
The sun is low, the squirrels, slow,
Then watch is kept by old oaks, strong,
With rushing leaves as East winds blow.
A sound, a smell say something's wrong,
For many saws belch smoke below,
As chippers roar their awful song,
Dismembered trees their end must know.
Peace reigns once more; birds move along,
With voices scorning, mourning so,
Their loss and ours, "We don't belong,
Where there's no room for oaks to grow."

James Stoker
Encinas Dr, La Cañada Flintridge, CA