Old trees whisper in the morning dew,

Tiny drops that cling to deadened leaves,

Beneath twisted branches, on the forest floor.

Ancient they are, insane perhaps, those trees,

As they nod one to another and give their secrets

To the earth that holds them prisoner with shackled roots.

But it is the wind that responds, attacks brittle limbs,

And sends them crashing down, totally oblivious

Of the pain they inflict in the cold morning air.

Sighing with satisfaction, the wind makes haste

To share what it has learned with a sky that

Glowers down from above in silent contempt.

Upon hearing the news it rumbles in anger,

Outraged at what it has learned from the trees

By way of that traitorous, uncaring wind.

And its anger is mighty, not to be borne,

So it attacks the ancient forest in a deafening

Roar, hurling flashing bolts of destruction.

The prisoners stand against it, maimed

And burning from their earthen prison,

Old trunks bent before the storm.

The rolling sky, its fury total, cries out

Its displeasure in a flood of pouring rain

That soaks the forest floor and douses all flames.

The numbing wind then knows it has been deceived

By the very message it thought stolen from whispered voices

And so flees beyond the reach of the storm.

The storm, with no more tales to feed it,

Quickly forgets its anger and gives chase

To the fading breeze until it is no more.

And those ancient trees, perhaps insane,

Whisper their pleasure one to the other

As they drink deep the water from shackled roots.

END

“Trees”