Everything's budding except the oaks.
Everything's gushing and blushing
And cries, "Oh my!"
To the false blue sky of early spring.
But the oaks are native
And understand how the latent sting
Of winter's frost lingers
Sometimes long after the equinox.

The oaks aren't impressed
With the trends of the best dressed,
With the tresses of peach and apricot
That spring premature,
Just in time for the Easter Spell.
The oaks' roots run well and deep below
And keep them from following
False idols, like the sun,
And false nature,
Like anyone who blows and goes
On and on about nothing.

So the oaks smile and nod
And drift back to sleep,
Until something real
Comes to wake them from all the dormant hype.

-jenn