Oak Trees

Sitting beneath the shade of the oak,
Its base a wall against me.
Its branches stretching their arms to heaven,
Worshiping their Maker.
The cool grass beneath me,
Softly swaying in the wind,
Dancing for their Maker.
The wind that blows,
Rustling,
Talking to their Maker.
I sit beneath the shade of the oak,
and join them in their worship.