Approaching eighty I was introduced
To an eight-hundred year old oak
My friend touched it with a prayer
Petting its sculpted animal hide
While I stood back counting branches
Whole trees themselves they could have been
Wooden posts holding them up
But the miracle was the unfallen leaves
Her fresh descendants no mother
Could be prouder of such faces
When she was just a seed
Chartres was being raised
By a quadrivium of artists
A new thinking was descending
On the whole world back then
And this one oak was singing
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