Hemlocked Heart

I once passed an oak that grew at an angle
55 or 40 degrees to the right, the dimensions of nails
Hammered into boards by yet calloused hands
That then gripped smooth oak door frames
As panic struck in the heart of the man
Sat, humming, on an oak bench on a porch
Who faltered inside when a bear crossed outdoors
With two little helpers she made her straight course
While scratches and scrapes left her sagging her limbs
That were tired from the force, or she’d say a win,
Of a fight she had had in the depths of the forest
A old foe she’d vanquished, now left her far worse
Than the man on the porch, surrounded by nails,
Who can’t help but think of the time a growth spurt failed
And the oak he had nourished turned into a bench,
A far cry from lofty, yet a hair's breadth from rest.