Built of an unsailed warship;
Grown of a door that will now never open;
Made of a cluster of courage unshown,
the oak hangs, ancient, in the orange air.

The summer storm is over now, boiled to nothing by a rage of sun that once warmed me.

By my side Baxter sags back home.
His heart, like mine, is a begging bowl.

But still the noise: within a canopy heavy with wet sorrow dew, rain taps on, hidden from all.

Baxter feels it, and stands askew by my side.

The climate of my life has changed. This oak cracks in the heat, and must remain at a stand.

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