The Angel Oak

The salt water
in my roots
tastes sweet,
sweet with the victory
of overcoming
hundred mile an hour
winds,
sweet with red sap
leaking from shovel
wounds,
sweet from the swinging feet
of little ones
breaking the bark
from my branches.
I do not mind
the little ones.
I am twisted, and old,
and strong.
I am salt air,
and sea song,
and long hot hours
in the summer sun.
I am windy winters,
and tangled hair,
I am
an angel
standing strong.