Elder oak stands in the forest,
having taken for itself a bit of space
to spread branches wide.
Gnarled, twisted roots, a place
to rest and ponder perhaps,
but more,
a shield and protection;
the entry for our rest, to store
our ashes. Not in some decorated urn or box,
but free to be inhaled, absorbed, to become
an intrinsic part of the tree.
Fully together we'll be the one
we have always been, always to be.
Our ashes drawn from root to crown,
a rising then, still living,
not buried in the ground.
A family tree we'll inhabit,
each acorn a legacy.
Our story still unfolding--
the tale of me, of him - our we.
Each ring then added will contain our being,
our adventure continues, our histortree.
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