the sounds of trees

twisted by copper wires, stunted by the years
delicately poised in miniature Chinese pots
of rare turquoise or rust-hued lacquer
a murmuring animates these perfect branches

in the morning drizzle, elms and wisteria
weep red stars and clusters of purple daggers
the whistling wind shares a troubadour’s song

the air is damp and mossy in my twin forests
of shady oak and charmed ginkgo, both hide garden spiders
whose incandescent webs spin a wanderer’s tales

a sudden breeze, like a lady’s secrets, caresses
a parasol pine perched on a tiny craggy mountain
as it opens wide its gnarled branches to ethereal wisdom

sassy spice-filled songs swoosh through a twisted willow
accompanied by bamboo garden chimes, their verse
is content with rose petals and bottle-blue beetles

miniature trees sing the forgotten language of dwarfs
and leprechauns, rhyming the wind’s impatience
and mirrored golden sunlight with raindrops
shadowed by silver moonbeams


the sounds of trees
[2009.17.5…d]
Written for Lady Shaara of the Writer’s Cramp
(Daily Winner)