The Language of the Trees
Do you think a tree has memories? If so, what might they be?
Beneath their spreading limbs do they recall things done by me?
Do they hear conversations, understand the things we say?
Do they remember secrets whispered, Or the games I used to play?
When I climb up in their branches do trees know I am there?
When I carve initials in their bark does it hurt or do they care.
When birds come and build their nests of maiden grass and weeds,
When I build a sturdy tree house filled with all the things boys need,
I just can't help but wonder If a tree knows what we've done,
If so, what is it thinking? is it also having fun?
A tree seems like a friend to me who watches all I do.
But never seems to judge me while I try to work it through.
It watches the mistakes I make like they are just a game.
Its silence waits for me to win, learn who I really am.
Its branches make a home for all, the insect, bird and frog,
Which shelter in its citadel that towers in the bog.
To the Oak tree in the meadow I once ran off and hid.
Did it hear me cry my heart out? Did it wonder what I did?
And when I stayed all night there did my tears all go unheard?
Was it shocked, did it get angry, when it heard my first bad word?
Will trees keep all our secrets if they recall what we do?
Or will they shout out to the wind I once carved, "I love you?"
I think the trees are speaking when they rattle in the breeze.
I think I almost understand the language of the trees.
Each leaf is a page in a book, a story to be told,
Which falls to earth at autumns end to sleep through winters cold.
And all their secret stories written, in gold and browns,
Make up our dreams on winter nights, when Sandman makes his rounds.
So if a tree does carry memories of the unseen life we live
And if it will keep our secrets. . . can a tree also forgive?
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