Maples and Oaks are talking. Big sentries rimming my path. The wind strums their vocal chords providing my walk a cadence, a silent energy. What else is there but this moment ? Oh plenty there is but the maples and oaks are talking now and l like to listen.
I'm carrying weights too. I love their symbolizing my inner toil, my inner penance. I'm under this wonderful shifting umbrella, this shifting shadow and light canopy under yet another on-coming breeze. A thousand voices, these maples and oaks that see it all, record it all.
Standing tall, standing stately, they're okay they're barely noticed. They have a greater order to attend. And I feel a surge of this in my veins, propelling my march onward, hovered over by royalty.
Years ago I used to try to whip up a little fun and awe in my daughter telling her the trees are talking. At her age she was willing. We would make up conversations, theorizing what they said.
I'm carrying weights too. I love their symbolizing my inner toil, my inner penance. I'm under this wonderful shifting umbrella, this shifting shadow and light canopy under yet another on-coming breeze. A thousand voices, these maples and oaks that see it all, record it all.
Standing tall, standing stately, they're okay they're barely noticed. They have a greater order to attend. And I feel a surge of this in my veins, propelling my march onward, hovered over by royalty.
Years ago I used to try to whip up a little fun and awe in my daughter telling her the trees are talking. At her age she was willing. We would make up conversations, theorizing what they said.
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