The Trees Are Talking So Loudly Today

 

The forest has risen from its hush,

boughs uncloaking throats of bark,

each leaf a syllable, each branch a stanza—

the wind a restless reader turning pages

in a book that never closes.

 

They speak in rust‑colored cadences,

a chorus of sap‑scented stories,

the ancient oak reciting the rain‑songs of centuries,

the birch whispering the sharp laughter of frost,

while the pine shouts the low‑hum of midnight fire.

 

Their voices braid together,

a tapestry woven from creak and quiver:

“Remember the sun‑kissed mornings,”

the elm sighs, “and the shadows that learned to dance.”

A trembling maple answers with a tremolo of leaves,

as if the forest itself were a harp struck by a storm.

 

I stand among them, a quiet listener,

my ears pressed to the damp earth,

the murmuring chorus swelling—

a dialogue that spills into the sky,

echoing in the clouds, reverberating in the river’s sigh.

 

When the day folds into twilight, the dialogue softens,

but the words remain, etched into the bark,

a reminder that the world never truly goes silent—

only the hearing heart learns to listen

to the loud, tender talk of trees.