Sometime when I have had enough
and I need a break
for just awhile
and the breeze is just right
I find a bench
and sit
and enjoy tree poetry.

Leaves that rustle
a cascade of shifting muting tones
almost singing
not quite songs
in whispering pieces
of languages forgotten or yet to be known

Leaves in light shifting
a cascade of shades of green
always changing
almost faces
not quite there
will of the wisps
tree nymphs and wood fairies almost being

I start to relax
and as I do
it almost seems
as if secrets
are about to be shared
if only I could
understand the words
of the trees and the leaves and the breeze.

Tree poetry.