Watching the Oaks - A poem

One more short poem today, inspired by the view out the back window.  Tomorrow we'll do some prose.

The oaks grow bent, their wealth spread to the sky,
imperiously demanding the sun's daily blessing.
Alternatively cursing the clouds as they bathe,
waves of sky-borne gold painting their branches.

The wind shifts, leaves twist, and the trees shimmer,
whether tickled or not, they seem to shake with laughter.
Verdant verdigris lit with amber in motion, their song
like the sea rushing in, voices raised together.

The ground beneath is dappled shade, shifting patterns
aligned to their helical attraction's journey above.
The orb marches its way from dawn through dusk,
each moment followed and mirrored below in shadow.

A poem by Harakhte