dear you,
trees are singing
in their creaky voices
they rub their hands together expectantly
and nod their heads like old men falling asleep
at the barbershop,
knowingly.
the chattering, flighty birds
believe that they rule the sky,
the sky is where the trees rest their heads
these birds are merely decoration
a mobile of song,
endlessly tossing, endlessly turning
they are guests, when they are tired
permitted to perch on sturdy boughs.
strength without muscle
wisdom without mind
eloquence without words
unconscious beauty
they are truly the lords of the earth,
godfathers of men, for we can only aspire.
they are giants.
love,
anonymous



