Misty mornings often find me,
Gazing at the world,
From my mountain top;
Wondering how I got here,
From there…
Tracing back on which roads I took,
Seeing how far I strayed,
Just to smell the wild rose,
Or touch the withered trunk,
Of an ancient oak tree,
Sensing the strength and power
Of its century long memory,
Wondering what it would say,
If it could speak…

I remember,
Lying cradled in its massive arms,
Hearing its leaves sing me to sleep,
I felt safe there,
Knowing it would hold the secrets,
I whispered into its branches forever…

Maybe,
In fifty years,
Another child will dare,
To climb as high,
Feel as safe,
And with their fingers,
Trace an old scar,
Carved in sudden passion,
And overwhelming fear,
To be known, and remembered…

To have another soul,
Whisper the name written there in tears,
And know they are not alone…

Thus,
I return to my home,
High in the mountains,
Remembering a past,
That had no future,
Hearing the long forgotten songs,
Of the oak leaves singing once more,
Borne to me,
By a sympathetic wind,
And hear it whisper gently,
For me alone,
“I remember you…”