On seeing a row of oaks

I am drawn towards these oaks
imagine them
as carved from some great silence
by a man who knew what silence is.

Not that they are silent.
No tree is that,
but that they come from silence,
are its inheritors.

A tree is many things:
hard working, for a start,
just ask the chief executive
of its hydraulic plant.

Its workshops are frenetic:
sap slurping in the pipes,
air pressures lifting roofs -
or if not that, then bursting cells -

to drive or energise
the process of osmosis.
The best of tissues rupture,
and though you may not hear,

a thousand little buggy things
will catch the pop.
Maybe they'll stop
their noisy chumping,

burrowing
or making love.
Maybe they'll not.
But to return to silence:

could you imagine
you are one such tree
as carved from silence
by my enlightened man?

Like all things living
you exist as twins.
Non-identical. Inseparable.
An inner and an outer oak

The outer oak is what we know:
great strength, longevity
dependability and calm -
the silence that we seek.
.
But now the inner oak...
how does that feel?
And can you sense your spirit's strength,
your heft, what made the Druids

worship you and link you
to their summer solstice,
use you for their wands
and as a centre for their world?

Or do you simply fret
about your outer oak,
the roughness of your bark,
the fruitfulness of fruit?

I am submitting this poem to Poets United for their Poetry Pantry #72