The Secret of the White Talking Leaves

I never thought that I would be
in privileged proximity
of White Talking Leaves…
a secret held for generations
o’er time of war and drought
and brash development, wherein
ax and saw and bulldozer pushed
the bosom of the Earth apart
to make for condo, plaza, parking lot…
and yet enough remained of White Leaves
to whisper their secret on the wind,
to add their voice among the chattering
of chipmunk, groundhog, restless wren…
a grove, an escarpment, a line albeit thin
to say to human progress, “We are here,”
and, “We are treasures of this Earth,”
despite the pour of Portland cement,
despite the auger’s audacious twist
through clay and silt for piles deep,
despite the need for the dollar sign.
I lend my ear to hear their voice
and as I do, I detect a hint of sadness
among the leafy oration—a budding
of dichotomy resonating ‘round about
with sturdy trunk as bass boom drum
and leafy limbs the sticks to snare
attention.
Those White Leaves talk
beyond the scope of nature’s mien,
of sunlight gained and chemical reaction.
They’re proud of many things, all right,
yet none so strong as time itself
and how they thrive amid man’s push—
the rape of life, for they are also life.
So fortunate I, to hear them speak,
and in my spine a tingling great
as the secret spills with eloquence
that steals the very air I breathe:
“We are the journey work of time;
  the cosmos lies within us all.”


40 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
8-12-16