Branches brush their velvety, mossy fingers
evoking a rhythm of the beat of nature’s heart,
a breeze blows and a gentler pace breathes.
A storm grows and they scratch and drum,
with fearful passions striving forward to peace.
They chant the songs of the seasons, and
break out new living leaves, that birth in
bright greens falling to die in gold and yellow,
delighting the eyes of those who look, and
filling the ready minds with the knowledge
of their own destination with the deep peace
of knowing, that we share a soul cycle of
life that begets life; and the sensible stop
listen to the centuries of wisdom gathered
in their roots, where gentle voices are always
speaking, in low murmurs that only those
listening may hear above the susurrous
of daily living; crowding our cluttered minds.