A Poem I Could Not Title

The trees bent double laughing,
their breath catching in their chests
in a low moan
Their mirth shakes their frames
and happy tears caress their coverings
They dance and sing
the picture of joy
It is they who make the most
in life, allowing cares to drain with rain

The elders look on,
wrinkled and turning mossy grey.
Long beards and stooping limbs
creak their wisdom to those that listen
Slowly swaying and chanting their song,
They whisper tales of epics old
wizen’d old wizards with knowledge untold
Their stories echo in their rutted faces
They reach high in praise of their Creator,
the picture of humble piety

I walk through and past them,
divining all they say.
I listen to their happy laughter
and ponder the wisdom they share
Any others who wander here listen
to pressing silence
They cannot hear the cacophony,
a euphony meant only for me.

May 12, 2009