An oak tree

A short-haired girl beneath the oak;
Grazing over the fallen leaves above.
Indeed, she is the clumsiest girl I found.
A heroine from tales the world forget.

She laughs despite the bruises on her knees,
And scolds me when I try to pull away.
Her grip is firm, as if the morning breeze
Might steal me from her arms and drift astray.

The school bell chimes, yet still she blocks my path,
A jealous pout upon her stubborn face.
She claims my heart, though love is not my craft,
Yet in her hands, I find a fleeting grace.

Beneath the tree, she tugs and holds me tight–
A fleeting storm, yet never felt so light.