A poem by the Norwegian writer Thor Sørheim

the winter oak

The brown, gnarled leaves of the oak tree

defy the winter. A slight gust, and they land

on the snow, swirl around and settle at its trunk.

After stiffer wind the winter oak arms itself against the ice.

When we feel the cold, dry bark, we can

make out traces of ants and insects. For

hundreds of years this tree has defied the cold.

Its roots are much older than the fence posts

that seek to encircle it. The oak

is owned by no one. It is a community

of cellulose, field and birdsong. Humanity

comes far down the list. We have to tip back

our heads to see its crown towering above us.

A network of branches, coexistence and leaves.

The world freezes to ice from time to time. The

winter oak resists, as if death were at stake.