The Heart of the Oak
Beneath the crown where thunder speaks,
Where starlight dwells and root-paths meet,
The Oak stands tall through storm and flame—
A pillar set in earth and name.
Its boughs once crowned the Fai folks rite,
In forests where moonlight kissed the night.
They guarded secrets, old and vast,
Of those who knew the strength of past.

With mistletoe in silver sheen,
It bridges the gap of the seen—unseen.
It’s a living gate, a breath of green—
Part world we know, and one between.
The Seelie Court walks silent here,
Their laughter woven soft and clear.
Their gifts are granted not for free—
But for the soul who kneels with plea.

O mortal heart, beware the flame—
Not all who dwell within oak’s name
Are kind. Some twisted roots below
Bind Unseelie realms where shadows grow.
For when the bark is burned by sky,
When lightning splits the Ravens cry,
The Oak becomes a storm-born shrine—
A tree of power, fierce, divine.

And in its core, where sap runs deep,
Lie dreams the waking may not keep.
Where Dryad sleeps with moss for bed,
A crown of leaves upon her head.
She speaks in silence, still as stone—
Yet every word can split the bone.
She tests the brave, she warns the proud—
Her wisdom wrapped in leaf and cloud.

So place your palm upon the bark,
And whisper low beneath the dark:
“Oak of root and storm and spark—
Show me the path, though it leaves a mark.”
And if the wind begins to bend,
And acorns fall like fate’s old friend—
Then know you’ve been both seen and weighed—
And by the Oak, a trial’s been laid.