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Dramatic Monologue:
The Oak Speaks After Two Hundred Years of Silence
I haven’t been silent, really.
I have spoken every day to those who will hear and see.
When my feathery blossoms waft on the wind in March,
I herald the spring in the loudest way,
And in autumn, my acorns crash and tumble.
“Winter is coming,” they call as they ricochet
Off pebbles and rustle through fallen leaves.
Even those who have come to live with me
Never seem to cease their speaking.
No one could call a jay quiet,
And who hasn’t been awakened by the woodpecker?
I love the chatter that never ends
As the squirrels scamper up and down my branches;
And yes, my bark can feel their funny little feet.
And yes, I do know where all their winter stores are hidden.
There are things an oak shouts out to all the world;
Other things, she can be trusted to keep secret.
I will not tell where the owl hides on the nights of no moon--
Which one of my branches harbors her.
When she calls out in her own silvery voice,
Only then will you know.
Have I seen plenty?
Of course I have.
I remember the people with quiet feet.
They would come to gather my acorns,
And always they honored me
With song and dance.
They would make their camps beneath my wide branches.
And I felt their spirits one with mine
When the great rains came
To clean my leaves, to fill their waiting baskets,
And finally to feed my deepest roots, down, down, in the dark sweet earth.
My roots could tell so many things--
About the deep groanings
When the stones themselves shift and slip
And the quakings transform the world of light,
Moving boulders and even my brother trees,
Changing some things from the life-state
To the place of no-life.
Do I know when a quaking will occur?
If I said, “Yes,” there would soon be many
(And not the ones who honor my spirit
As the quiet feet people once did.)
Yes, many humans would come to gall me--
Worse than wasps this kind has become--
Stomping on everything with their loud feet,
They have no patience when there is something they want.
How many of my brothers have they killed
To make shelters for themselves--
Shelters too large for a whole tribe of the quiet ones.
How can you trust a people who lust and kill
And take no time to hear the wind?
Will I tell them
When my deepest roots feel the stirrings,
And even the tiny ants, my ancient friends,
Scurry and whisper of the change to come?
Like the owl, the earth is my old and secret friend;
I will tell nothing she wishes untold.
I have spoken every day to those who will hear and see.
When my feathery blossoms waft on the wind in March,
I herald the spring in the loudest way,
And in autumn, my acorns crash and tumble.
“Winter is coming,” they call as they ricochet
Off pebbles and rustle through fallen leaves.
Even those who have come to live with me
Never seem to cease their speaking.
No one could call a jay quiet,
And who hasn’t been awakened by the woodpecker?
I love the chatter that never ends
As the squirrels scamper up and down my branches;
And yes, my bark can feel their funny little feet.
And yes, I do know where all their winter stores are hidden.
There are things an oak shouts out to all the world;
Other things, she can be trusted to keep secret.
I will not tell where the owl hides on the nights of no moon--
Which one of my branches harbors her.
When she calls out in her own silvery voice,
Only then will you know.
Have I seen plenty?
Of course I have.
I remember the people with quiet feet.
They would come to gather my acorns,
And always they honored me
With song and dance.
They would make their camps beneath my wide branches.
And I felt their spirits one with mine
When the great rains came
To clean my leaves, to fill their waiting baskets,
And finally to feed my deepest roots, down, down, in the dark sweet earth.
My roots could tell so many things--
About the deep groanings
When the stones themselves shift and slip
And the quakings transform the world of light,
Moving boulders and even my brother trees,
Changing some things from the life-state
To the place of no-life.
Do I know when a quaking will occur?
If I said, “Yes,” there would soon be many
(And not the ones who honor my spirit
As the quiet feet people once did.)
Yes, many humans would come to gall me--
Worse than wasps this kind has become--
Stomping on everything with their loud feet,
They have no patience when there is something they want.
How many of my brothers have they killed
To make shelters for themselves--
Shelters too large for a whole tribe of the quiet ones.
How can you trust a people who lust and kill
And take no time to hear the wind?
Will I tell them
When my deepest roots feel the stirrings,
And even the tiny ants, my ancient friends,
Scurry and whisper of the change to come?
Like the owl, the earth is my old and secret friend;
I will tell nothing she wishes untold.
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