Tree Language
There is a green canopy outside my door.
Some would say it is overgrown,
gone wild, too thick with itself.
But the green holds me with its love,
bears my sorrow like a blanket,
listens to my pain that I long to share.
The green speaks wisdom,
reminding me that it will cover us all in death,
but that is for another day.
For now it is dancing with the winking sun,
leaves turning free,
loosed with joy,
singing that to be today is their only destiny.
I know the trees are aware.
They too hear the cries I hear from far away.
Tyrants are abroad,
no matter how silent they pretend to be.
There is little point in conversation, verdant or otherwise,
for their answers are in a language other than mine,
tree language, green words.
I only know it comforts to hear their whispers.
Linda Beatrice Brown © September 26, 2017